


Just the Faintest Touch

by fortheloveofhawke



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Pre-Relationship, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-03
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2018-04-18 21:26:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 104,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4721033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fortheloveofhawke/pseuds/fortheloveofhawke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke and Varric's relationship over the years and their inability to keep their hands off each other.</p><p>Update 1-2-18: Chapters 1 & 2 have been rewritten to better show Hawke and Varric's developing friendship. A few minor edits will be made throughout the rest of the story to better incorporate this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Niamh is pronounced (nee-ehv). My dual-wielding, so-purple-it-hurts rogue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter and the next have been rewritten to reflect the turn of the story. What was once supposed to be a five-chapter drabble fic has changed dramatically.

1.

Generally speaking, Varric Tethras had an easy time of things. Being raised in the Merchants Guild forced one to have their shit together and Varric very much liked to think that he did, save the occasional outlier. His brother, Bartrand, for one, had a tendency to complicate many situations that had no business being complicated. Were it not for Varric’s natural ability to talk circles around his sibling, his life would be much more difficult. As it was, Varric was able to maintain his stakes in the family businesses, as well as several personal pursuits, without much interference. The nature of these personal pursuits was dubious at best and subject to a number of snags one could expect when skirting the law. But even so, Varric was good at what he did, and problems were kept to a minimum—which was why the increasing appearance of a new mercenary group in his reports was so concerning. The Red Iron was known, but didn’t carry the same weight as the Carta or Coterie. It was made up of the thugs who weren’t cut out for the big leagues, and certainly not cut out to be interfering with Varric’s deals.

Varric stared grimly at his contact, who shifted nervously from foot to foot, adding to Varric’s irritation. He rarely had anything other than an easy grin for his contacts and the man was suitably nervous, but Varric was suitably aggravated.

“So that’s it?” Varric snapped. “They showed up out of nowhere and killed the negotiator?”

“Aye. Uh, messere.”

“I’ve been working this deal for weeks and that’s it. All for naught.” Varric tapped his quill in agitation. “Where did the Red Iron find a drop of competence? They’ve barely been relevant and suddenly they’re showing up everywhere.”

“Some new recruit is cleaning up,” the contact said. Varric turned to him sharply and the man startled. “Uh, some Fereldan refugee or something.”

“Who is he?”

“ _She_. Heard the name Hawke?”

“Of course, I have. Who hasn’t at this point?”

_Hawke_. Another name that had appeared out of nowhere.

“Red Iron bought her way into the city.”

Well. That certainly helped explain things. Varric felt a series of clicks in his head as previously missing details fell into place.

“Well, looks like they’re getting their money’s worth. Get your boys together and keep the Iron out of my deals.”

The contact nodded, relieved to finally be dismissed. “Aye, messere.”

Varric had a hard time believing that the Red Iron could go from a two-bit mercenary operation to a competitor with the Coterie in a matter of weeks—and on the back of a Fereldan refugee, no less. Desperation was quite the motivator, it seemed. With nothing else to do about it, Varric upped his security and put the Red Iron out of his mind.

Less easily forgotten was his curiosity about the Fereldan woman he had never seen before that had squeezed her way into his life. But he _had_ seen her. He’d seen her everywhere. Occasionally in Hightown, but mostly in the crowded streets of Lowtown. At the markets, in the alleys, with the guards, _dodging_ the guards. At the Hanged Man, even. He just didn’t know it was her. She was a Fereldan in a city full to bursting with them, and Fereldans were good fodder. Desperate and hungry made for good mercenaries, which also pushed Fereldans into groups of people that Varric did his best to avoid—like the Red Iron. His deals were exclusively with the Carta and the Coterie and he had every intention of keeping it that way. Easier said than done, considering that the Red Iron mercs were regular patrons at the Hanged Man.

Varric spared a glance over the top of his cards for the group two tables over. Still armed from a job, the men and women of the Red Iron were keeping Corff busy with their heavy drinking. Varric smoothed his frown as armor bearing the Templar insignia interrupted his view. Emeric, looking older than he should for a man in his forties, sat down across from Varric and gestured to be dealt in.

“Hey there, Emeric,” Varric said, complying and dealing out another hand. “Haven’t seen you in a while. I was starting to think you were too good for us.”

Emeric looked like he’d aged ten years in the month since he’d last shown up for Diamondback.

“I’ve been busy with an investigation, but every lead has been a dead end.”

“Well, the drinks are on me. I imagine I’ll be taking the bulk of your purse tonight.”

Emeric laughed, a rusty sound that reminded Varric of churning gravel. “Don’t bet on it.”

Varric would have taken that bet from just about anyone he knew, _especially_ Emeric. The man’s poker face was about as good as a child’s when presented with a mountain of sweets. It would be a fairly easy night on Varric’s purse. His contact, Vorin, was a decent cheat, but Varric had taught him all he knew. And Nadal from the alienage wasn’t much better than Emeric.

Shortly into their second hand, a few more Red Iron mercs showed up and joined their fellows. Varric barely spared them a glance. From the corner of his eye he could make out over a half dozen of them, all with visible weapons. Meeran sat at the head and shouted for a round. Varric made a mental note to tip Norah extra. Edwina kept the tavern in order, but Norah was dealing with a sizable lack of ability that was likely to earn her some harassment from the group.

He kept the game going, winning most hands and decidedly _not_ paying attention to the Red Iron.

//

Hawke didn’t know why she was there. She’d officially covered the debt a few days ago, but Meeran had put her in charge of a month-long protection detail on the docks that would pay well and she didn’t like leaving things unfinished. There was only a week left to go and her earnings would go straight into her own pocket for the first time. It was worth staying on until it was done, even if it meant subjecting herself to these bastards for another week.  

As if reading her thoughts, Meeran spoke up. “Glad you’re staying on for the rest of the job, Hawke. That kind of dedication is hard to find.”

She shrugged, taking a sip of her ale as an excuse not to answer. It was awful stuff. She’d be happy to never have to come here again.

“But we need to square a few things away.”

Hawke met his eyes over the lip of her mug as she drank. She had been waiting for him to pull something. She was his money maker now; of _course_ he wouldn’t just let her go.

“Your share of the debt has been settled, certainly, but I paid entry for four of you. Those other debts are still open.”

“I worked all four off. We covered this when I agreed to your deal and you confirmed it last week.”

“Deals change,” Meeran said, ice seeping into his voice. It was the tone that kept the others in line. It had always made Hawke’s hand itch for her blade. “But I’ve been mulling it over and I think we can take care of this without much effort on your part. Your sister has always been so obliging when we needed her…expertise. I can think of a few other uses that would settle things straight away.”

At first, she thought Meeran was threatening her with tipping off the templars, but the sour churning of adrenaline in her gut said otherwise.

“One night is really all I’d need of her.” His insinuation was clear.

Hawke slammed her mug on the table and stood. The others stood with her, but she continued to stare down Meeran.

//

The slam of a mug on the table silenced the tavern in an instant. The Hanged Man’s crowd knew the difference between a drunkard’s misestimation of his own strength and a threat. _This_ was a threat. She spoke in a dangerously soft voice, but the tavern’s silence allowed everyone to hear her.

“Stay the _fuck_ away from my sister.”

 “I haven’t released you yet, Hawke,” Meeran sneered.

Hawke. _Hawke._ Well, this was certainly one way to learn who she was, Varric mused, cards forgotten on the table.

Without any change of expression, Hawke picked up the mug and swung it in a tight, effortless arc into the head of Meeran’s second-in-command. The crunch of breaking bone was audible throughout the tavern, but no one dared utter a sound. Meeran’s guards raised their blades, ready to swing. Varric, Emeric, and several other armed individuals in the room stood.

Meeran held up a hand to stay his guards. His expression hadn’t altered much when his second went down, but he had started to sweat.

“Let’s not be hasty.”

Her voice was almost theatrical in its casualness. “If you had been this reasonable a moment ago, Turk wouldn’t be a brain dead mess the rest of his ugly life. Since you’re too thick for such subtlety as a skull-cracking, let me put this in simple terms for you: This contract is done. You were repaid with more interest than you deserve. If you come anywhere near me or my sister again, I’ll rip your balls off and watch you choke on them.”

She stepped away and one of the men made to grab her arm. In a flash almost too fast to see, she drew a dagger from within her sleeve and pinned the man’s hand to the table. He screamed and she continued on her way out.

“Don’t try me like this again, Meeran,” she said good-naturedly.

Varric found that voice more terrifying than the venomous one.

Hawke passed his table as she sauntered toward the exit, giving Varric a brief glimpse at her before she slipped out. The intensity in her face had been wiped away for calm humor. His heart beat a little faster, excitement, perhaps, at finally having a face to the name on everyone’s lips. Then she was gone.

Varric saw humiliation and fury through Meeran’s seemingly calm face, but he let Hawke go. Conversation started up again slowly and everyone resumed their seats.

“Bunch of thugs,” Emeric muttered. “Can’t believe the Guard lets it continue.”

Nadal scoffed. “You know Jevan’s in every gang’s pocket.”

“Never saw Meeran shit himself like that before,” Vorin said with a laugh. “She’s got a pair all right. Shame he’ll have her killed.”

Varric glanced back at the door. No wonder the Red Iron had risen so quickly. Hawke was something, all right, and now she was contract-free. The gears in his head had started turning, though toward what he wasn’t sure.

He sent his contacts out to gather what they could about her over the following days. Hawke lived in the Lowtown slums, barely a step above the alienage, with her unfortunate relative, Gamlen Amell. The younger Hawke was a mage, evidently. Her name wasn’t well-known, but suspicions of her magic were. That little tidbit had come to Templar attention following the end of Hawke’s contract with the Red Iron. Varric wouldn’t be surprised if Meeran had personally dropped the hint himself. Not much could be done, though. Kirkwall had one of the strictest Circles in Thedas and the sister would likely be locked up within the year. There was no escaping the Knight-Commander once she knew about an apostate.

 

 

2.

“Get lost, dog lord,” the vendor snapped.

“I prefer lady, actually.”

Varric heard the exchange at the pastry vendor a few stalls away from where he stood. There was a group of Merchants Guild members loitering by the stairs to Lowtown and he’d been forced to duck away behind the market stalls until they left.

“Oh, a smart-ass Fereldan. That’s new.”

“That’s me, fighting stereotypes,” the woman said dryly. “Can I order now?”

“Keep moving. I don’t serve you fresh-off-the-boat refugees.”

“I’ve been here for over a year, actually.” The voice was smooth with a theatrical quality to it. “But I suppose ‘stale-off-the-boat’ doesn’t have quite the same ring to it.”

The vendor considered her, eyes giving her a once-over. “A year, eh? That’s funny, I’d have thought all the mud would have washed off you by now. Guess it’s just bad breeding.”

Varric glanced up at that. Her face wasn’t visible, but her armor showed enough skin for him to see her brown skin. Very brown. Probably Antivan, maybe Rivaini. Either way, she was undeniably Hawke.

The shopkeep he recognized. Old money in Kirkwall, and one of the louder ones. He was especially outspoken about the refugee situation and had petitioned the Viscount to close the city gates as soon as news of Ostagar reached the Free Marches. It wasn’t surprising; the man had advocated for limiting the foreign imports on the basis of Antivans and Rivaini being “dirty cheats and swindlers.” He’d been unsuccessful, but the crowd siding with him had been larger than Varric liked to think about.

There was a long pause, then a crash as Hawke grabbed the man by the collar of his shirt and pulled him forward, tipping the table and its array of pastries over. Someone called for the guard, but the two stationed in the market square were already hurrying over.

“Hawke, what are you doing?!”

A red-headed guardswoman had cut an intimidating path through the crowd. She towered at least a head over most and stormed right up to Hawke.

“This Fereldan scum just assaulted me!”

The guard’s eyes turned cold. Another Fereldan? And in the Guard?

“Why, Hawke?”

“He seems to not only have backwards views about Ferelden, but Rivain as well. Particularly its people.” Hawke gestured vaguely to her face.

“Serah, you do not have a right to refuse service based on your _personal_ opinions,” the guard said as neutrally as possible.

“What?! This is _my_ stall and I can sell my wares to whomever I choose!”

Varric tuned the rest out and focused on Hawke now that he finally had the chance to see more than a glimpse of her. All humans were tall to Varric, but even he could tell that she was above average for one. She was nearly as tall as the guardswoman, but threw her height around very differently. The guard was straight up intimidating, but Hawke’s posture was disengaging; hip cocked casually and back slouched just enough to not look sloppy. Everything about her seemed as non-threatening as possible, but Varric knew a ruse when he saw one, even if it was only after two encounters with her.

Her long, sharp features and—appropriately—hawkish eyes glossed over the crowd, taking note of those watching. Varric smoothly stepped into a passing group of dwarves moving crates up the stairs toward the Merchants Guild square. The hairs on the back of his neck rose when her gaze landed on him, paused for a second, and moved on.

She wasn’t bad looking. Not gorgeous, but certainly not unattractive. She was…intense. Definitely different from what he’d expected after all the rumors. She’d paid no attention to her appearance other than some kohl around her eyes and, decked out in armor as she was, it was clear she didn’t care.

Definitely not his type. Too dangerous, too un-self-absorbed, too much leg. He had better plans for her than a bedding, anyway. The gears had finally fit together.

Bartrand was still struggling to raise the necessary coin for the expedition and the delay was looking like well over a year at this point. They were cutting it _very_ close to the end of the brief window before the Deep Roads filled with darkspawn once again. The Blight had officially been declared over a month ago and the proverbial clock was ticking. If Varric let his brother take care of everything, they’d be killed within hours, overcome by a veritable tide of the blighted creatures. Varric shuddered.

That was a good line, though. He made a mental note to use it somewhere. _Tale of the Warden_ , perhaps?

But this woman—Hawke—could be just what he needed to move things along. Desperate, poor, and now with the Templars asking questions about her sister, it wouldn’t be a hard sell. He considered approaching her now, but thought better of it. While he didn’t think it would take much convincing, that didn’t mean he couldn’t whip up a show just to ensure an enthusiastic “yes.”

Hawke and the guard started up the steps toward him and he slipped into another group of dwarves to eavesdrop on their conversation.

“You need to watch it, Hawke. The Red Iron isn’t protecting you anymore.”

“No, but you are.” She flashed a whip crack of a smirk and Varric had to stop himself from grinning along with it.

Now that she wasn’t threatening or posturing, he heard her normal voice. Not theatrical or airy, but smooth and full of humor. A Fereldan accent, but not as strong as most of her countrymen. A sharp laugh and an easy grin, if a little crooked.

“ _Hawke_.”

“Don’t worry so much. Next week I’m going to sign onto that Deep Roads expedition when the books open.”

Varric couldn’t have created a better opportunity if he’d tried.

The guard stopped short. “You can’t be serious. You’d risk that after Ostagar?”

“Better than slumming it up in Lowtown.”

The guard shook her head and they resumed walking toward the Keep. Varric didn’t follow. He knew she was a refugee, but the veteran bit was even more impressive. He hadn’t met any other survivors. That was a story he wanted to hear.

This was turning out better than he’d imagined.

 

 

3.

Hawke cursed her carelessness as she sprinted after the thief. She’d been too busy fuming at Bartrand’s refusal to allow her a spot on the expedition and missed the man sneaking up to her until it was too late. That coin was the last she had and it was intended for dinner tonight. Walking away from Meeran meant denying herself the promised five sovereigns for the job she had been on. Now she’d have to find a quick job or an absent-minded noble to pickpocket. But first, she would run the thief down and break his jaw.

It had been a full year and Kirkwall still did not agree with her in the least.

She rounded the corner in time to witness a bolt pin the thief to a wall. A dwarf of all people, wielding an intricate crossbow, had secured her coin purse. Hawke hadn’t seen pickpockets fight over the same mark, but this city was just _full_ of surprises.

_Good_ , she thought, _I can easily outrun a dwarf and—_

And he punched the thief in the jaw, making no move to run away and instead headed straight for her.

Maybe it wasn’t that Kirkwall didn’t agree with her; it just didn’t make any damned sense.

He casually tossed her the purse and made a show of twirling the bolt between his fingers as he approached.

“Might want to keep a tighter hold on that,” he said, his lips curling in a smirk. “Even Hightown isn’t immune to pickpockets.” He paused long enough to bow at the waist. “Varric Tethras, at your service.”

“Tethras,” Hawke said slowly, distracted as he abruptly ceased twirling the bolt, smoothly returning it to a quiver on his hip. Displeasure seeped into her tone when she returned her focus to the conversation. “You’re Bartrand’s brother.”

“Don’t fault me for what I have no control over.” He placed a hand over his heart in mock hurt before resuming the smirk. “Bartrand wouldn’t know an opportunity if it hit him square in the jaw.”

“But you would.”

Varric approached slowly, almost too slowly to notice. A few words, a few steps. A few more words, a few more steps. Until he stood right before her. It allowed him to speak more softly, no longer having to compete with the busy market street.

“I would! The expedition doesn’t need more muscle, true, but what Bartrand doesn’t realize is we need someone like you.”

The sheer coincidence of the whole situation should have dawned on her, but Hawke was too surprised to focus properly. He spoke like a salesman who had been making deals since before she was old enough to enlist, and she couldn’t help but fall in with his easy cadence. The wariness in her voice had faded to match his own tone, which, in hindsight, she would realize was so much like her own.

“And what do you know about me?”

She crossed her arms and feigned a dismissive glance around the street as she sought out Bethany. Her sister stood several feet away, leaning against the back wall of an extravagant house and glancing over occasionally. Up to Hawke, then. Great. She looked back at the dwarf— _Varric_.

“I know that you’ve faced darkspawn before. That you were a soldier at Ostagar.” Another step closer. “I know that you alone are responsible for the Red Iron’s elevation from a mediocre band of thugs to a true competitor with the Carta and Coterie.” He dropped his voice, forcing Hawke to lean closer to catch his next words. “And I know the Templars have been asking questions.”

His eyes flicked to Bethany and back. Hawke swallowed.

“A trip out of the city for several weeks could just be enough to get them off your back. You would be a great addition to our muscle, sure, but we have much more need for your experience. Your expertise. What we need is a partner.”

She blinked. “Partner? Forgive me for assuming, but your brother doesn’t strike me as the type to want a partner.”

“True, but if this partner were to offer, oh, say, fifty sovereigns? Even he couldn’t say no.”

He waved a hand casually, as if fifty sovereigns were some paltry sum. As if Hawke had been skipping meals every other day for fun. She swayed and let out a sharp breath.

“Fifty sovereigns? That’s rather steep.”

“Compared to the riches we’ll find in the Deep Roads? I think it’s a very small price to pay.”

True, if the expedition was a success, but she couldn’t keep Mother and Bethany properly fed without giving up her own meals _now_. Keeping food on the table and saving fifty sovereigns on the side? Impossible.

Varric took another step toward her, now firmly within her personal space. The intrusion blared at her senses, but she didn’t move away. This felt like a con, but what point was there in conning a poor Fereldan? His every word dripped with reassurance and Hawke desperately needed it. She had shot herself in the foot by threatening Meeran. The dearth in shady jobs available to her was undoubtedly his doing. She’d watched him do it to countless others in her year of servitude; now it was her turn to suffer.

“Fifty sovereigns. And…?”

“A third of the top cut that Bartrand and I will split.”

“And you’re sure he’ll agree?”

“I’m sure he needs that coin. Other than a few minor contributors, Bartrand has done this without the Merchants Guild’s support.” Hawke frowned at his sidestep of her question, but she watched his shoulders sag a fraction as he let out a deep sigh. “We’re funding this on our own and struggling to get it on its feet before the next Blight begins.”

Hawke shifted from foot to foot. She heard herself needle him with other questions, but took no notice of the answers. She voiced perfunctory concerns, asked pointless questions, even one about his crossbow. Anything to give herself time to think. Varric responded to each question calmly, unfazed by her suspicions. He brushed aside her concerns with each casual wave of his hand and each rational solution. Even without listening she felt more reassured.

A deal—a _partnership_. Enough profits to get her family out of the slums and the Templars off Bethany’s trail. Suspicions aside, Hawke needed this. Her family needed help and she could no longer pretend to be capable of doing it on her own. She was out of her element and nearly out of options, and she knew it. _Varric_ knew it. After several minutes, she had nothing left to say.

Varric held out his hand. He stood so close he barely needed to stretch it out. Fifty sovereigns and a partnership rested in that palm. Her gut twisted, and she tried to focus on that feeling. It was a nervous twisting, but not bad. It welcomed this deal. It welcomed Varric.

She took his hand.

He shook it enthusiastically and his smile turned from salesman to genuine.

“Excellent!” He beamed, thoroughly disarming her.

It was settled, for better or for worse. Varric took a step toward her and crooked a finger. Her spine bent automatically to bring her ear closer. In the back of her mind her father’s voice warned her about silver-tongued men. Several scenarios played out in her mind in a flash, all stemming from her inability to turn down what Varric had to offer. She pushed them down. There was no helping it now. She had to hope that the gut feeling she got about Varric wasn’t wrong.

“We should talk privately. Come to my suite in the Hanged Man tonight. That’s where I’ll be when I’m not with you.”

“Not with me?” she echoed.

“You’ve done well on your own, especially for a refugee, but I know this city like the back of my hand. It’ll be worth your while to let me tag along. Promise.”

Hawke lifted an eyebrow. He was too smooth by far, and somehow self-assured in a way that wasn’t off-putting. She felt swindled and not at the same time. Malcolm hadn’t raised foolish children and Hawke was justifying madly in her head to convince herself that she _wasn’t_ being fooled now.

“All right, then,” she said. “I have a friend in the Guard. She may have work to get us started.”

There was that genuine smile again, only this time something like mischief lurked at the corners. After a year of judgmental gazes from her mother and Aveline, Hawke couldn’t deny that she liked the look of it.

She nodded at Bethany and Varric gestured for them to lead. A step behind her, Varric began a narrative of what was going on around them; who was who, which group had claimed which square as their own (“Not that the Guard will admit it,” he said wryly), and so on. Hawke heard most of what he said—there was a quality to his voice that made her _want_ to listen—but her thoughts were occupied with how she was going to raise fifty sovereigns, and how she was going to explain this to her mother.

Hightown’s crowd had reached its late morning peak. Servants wove through the throngs of people bearing armfuls of packages. Carts cleared paths that filled rapidly in their wake. A guard sprinted after an urchin, making Hawke stop short to avoid being tackled. Her thoughts stuttered when a large hand touched the small of her back and began directing her through the crowd. She startled, but not enough to alert Bethany. A glance to the side revealed Varric beside her, nudging her this way and that. He appeared to feel her gaze and followed it to the offending hand. A flash of dismay crossed his face as he looked back at her, as if he hadn’t been entirely aware of the gesture. He was waiting for a response. A sharp word, a slap, any indication that he’d overstepped.

And he had. Hawke was not a physical person and the hand on her back was a level of familiarity that she had never granted anyone. As she reached to swat his hand aside and watched his panic increase, she stopped herself. Varric clearly hadn’t put enough thought into the gesture her to give her the idea that he was being slick. Smooth, maybe, but not slick. His efforts to reassure her had done their job. Her gut told her this wasn’t a con. While she wouldn’t say she trusted him, she was hesitant to say she _didn’t_. Her father had once spoken of natural sympathies between perfect strangers, and for the first time in her life she believed him. If Varric tried to stab her in the back, she was fairly certain she was the quicker draw. This wasn’t how she had planned on joining the expedition, but it was the only opportunity she had to work with. At least it was a charming one.

That didn’t mean she’d let the opportunity to make him sweat it out for a minute slip by.

Varric’s hand remained stiff and awkward against her back. That it was unwelcome was fairly obvious to him now, but Hawke felt certain that he wasn’t trying to pull anything. She smirked down at him, his eyes widened a tick, and she adjusted her long strides to match his significantly shorter ones. In a series of expressions that passed too quickly for her to follow, Varric relaxed and continued to guide her through the crowd with his hand. A fleeting thought suggested that it fit there rather nicely.

Maybe it was stupid and maybe the late Malcolm Hawke was watching from the Maker’s side in disappointment, but this was her family’s best ticket out of the slums.

Maybe it would even be fun.

 

 

4.

Varric watched her approach the bar from where he stood at the top of the stairs, surveying the tavern’s crowd. Even though he couldn’t hear it above the noise, he saw his name on her lips. Corff told her where to go and her eyes turned to the stairs, where she saw him standing. Her expression turned neutral before he could read it. She was good. This was going to be interesting.

Varric cocked his head as she walked up the stairs toward him, not breaking his gaze away. She arched a single eyebrow.

Why _was_ he still standing here? He was supposed to be the one tugging her along, but it was starting to feel like he was the one being drawn in. He felt the first pang of uncertainty. He still had a good feeling about her, but wondered if he should have been more cautious in putting so much on the shoulders of a stranger.

“Right on time,” he said.

“Funny, I don’t remember you giving me a time.”

There was a quirk to her mouth that he found himself liking a great deal. Perpetual humor and an ounce of disbelief, probably with herself. He knew it was going to be an uphill battle to gain her trust, but the feeling of uncertainty was fading.

“Doesn’t appear I had to.”

She stared at him and he realized that they were still standing at the top of the stairs. He hadn’t moved and she was titling toward suspicious. Varric gestured her forward toward his suite, a hand finding the small of her back again before he could help it as he guided her through his door. He didn’t miss the twitch of her eyebrow, but it was too late to take it back now. Old business habits died hard.

“We have to talk maps.”

Hawke put a seat between them. It was a statement: _I don’t trust you yet_. He heard it loud and clear, but he also noticed her leaning in as he spoke. It was definitely done unwittingly, but it was something. It reinforced the good feeling he had about her, but he’d have to be careful. He’d put an awful lot of faith in this partnership—in her. The intensity that had drawn him to her when she’d left the Red Iron was scary, sure, but it was magnetic, too. Once they were underground his life would be in her hands. The odds of them escaping the Deep Roads unscathed were low as it was, and he’d cut them down further by bringing in a stranger. But Varric was a betting man. His gut hadn’t let him down before and he’d have to hope it didn’t this time.

 

 

5.

Hawke’s hip tingled beneath Varric’s hand and she resisted the urge to remove it. She had hoped that her standoffishness would give him a hint and he’d ease up on the touching, but he didn’t even seem to notice. It just appeared to be what he did when speaking to someone. She tried to remember if he did it with Bethany and couldn’t. Definitely not with Aveline—the guardswoman became even tighter-lipped when Varric was around. Hawke couldn’t wait to get _that_ talk.

Hawke was finding it hard enough not to acquiesce to his every question about her. Her life in Lothering, the army at Ostagar, Flemeth, the Red Iron. Her nerves were wearing thin, mostly because she found herself _wanting_ to tell him. She frequently found herself in the middle of a story before she’d catch herself and finish abruptly, leaving Varric reeling. She didn’t want to be another whining refugee, laying her troubles at the feet of the one person who’d gone out on a limb for her, but she missed having someone to talk to other than her family. There was always Aveline, but she still kept tabs on Hawke and it just wasn’t satisfying to vent to someone who already knew the whole situation.

And no matter how much she wanted to trust Varric, she couldn’t let herself without proof. There were enough Fereldans who had been scammed because they’d put their trust in someone, and Hawke couldn’t risk her family’s future on the word of a very smooth, very mollifying dwarf whom she’d known for less than a week. He was too charming for her own good and, worst of all, he knew it. So, Hawke answered his questions with as little detail as possible, let him nudge her along, and played everything else close to her chest.

It wasn’t until they’d agreed to help Anders that she began to appreciate Varric’s constant presence at her side.

The Templars in the Chantry at night weren’t a problem. Bethany was safe at home and Hawke could handle Aveline’s wrath for this. Anders’s guest, however, was not a complication her increasingly complicated life needed. An eruption of blue light and an unearthly voice filled the balcony where they were cornered, and Hawke detached. The crackle of magic and the deep voice faded until they were miles away. Her grip on her daggers loosened and she began to step backwards, away from the source, away from everything. She stepped right into Varric, whose hands came up to brace her. One in the middle of her back to keep from being knocked over and another on her hip with bruising strength. Partially for him, but mostly for her.

“Not the time for it, Hawke,” he said, voice strained.

A steadying breath held it at bay. It had been so long since the last time she’d experienced it that the effort to fight it left her breathless. With everything she’d dealt with, everything she’d seen in twenty-five years, there were things too overwhelming for even her to cope with. The repercussions of this fight easily fell into the category of Too Much.

The first time, she’d been a child. The twins hadn’t been born yet and they’d had to leave a village in the middle of the night after someone tipped off the Templars about her father. They’d picked up what they could carry and fled. She remembered her father’s voice, hushed as he desperately tried to soothe his distraught daughter.

_Look at the sky, Pup. Can you do that for me? Look at the sky. Find the Lady of the Skies and Hakkon and the rest._

And she had. She’d flow into the sky, among the stars and constellations, and stayed there for hours before she responded to anything else again.

The last time had been Ostagar—her first look at the darkspawn army that she had to fight thanks to Carver’s unbearable need for glory. Captain Varel’s booming command to march and the soldier behind her had saved her, pulling her back down before she left her wits—and her life—behind.

And now Varric had done the same. If he hadn’t been right behind her like he’d insisted for the better part of a week, she’d have been struck down. She tightened her grip on her blades and rushed forward, taking out the archer aiming at Aveline’s head. Despite the Templars’ powers, Anders’s abomination-fueled spell power was enough to make the battle quick. The sound of clashing metal and shouts of pain were discomforting in a place like the Chantry. The silence of the aftermath was worse.

Anders departed immediately without a word, leaving the rest to follow in stunned silence. The cool night air filling Hawke’s lungs brought her back to herself. Just in time for Aveline’s finger to jab her in the chest.

“You and I are going to talk about this,” Aveline fumed. “This isn’t what you said we’d be doing. I’m a member of the Guard!”

“Come on, Aveline,” Hawke soothed with a theatrical lilt to hide her remaining shakiness. “I didn’t know that would happen. Even _I_ wouldn’t help an abomination kill Templars in the Chantry.”

“I’m not so sure about that.” Aveline spared a glare for Varric before turning another hard look at Hawke and storming away.

“You good?” Varric asked from beside her. A careful, neutral looked concealed his face.

“Yeah,” she said, and she felt it. “Thanks. For back there.”

He shrugged, eyes turned toward the square for any sign of people lurking in the dark corners.

“How did you know I was…” she trailed off and gestured vaguely. “Out of it?”

The expression wiped itself from his face again, though less successfully. It was guarded and so very different from the friendly façade he’d shown her thus far. This man— _this_ Varric—was the one capable of dealing with the Merchants Guild. With protecting his house’s heir in the Deep Roads. With being skilled in battle, despite his claims that he only occasionally shot people.

“Seen it before,” he said simply.

Hawke wanted to hear that story. Then again, judging by his face, maybe not. She sighed and gave his arm a tug. He startled at the contact and she realized it was the first time she’d touched him voluntarily.

“Come on,” she said. “I think we could both use a drink.”

Back at the Hanged Man, they sat at Varric’s table in silence through two rounds.

“Was that what you expected?” she asked, voice raspy from over an hour of disuse.

Varric laughed, but there wasn’t a drop of humor in it. After a week of experiencing a Varric intent on selling her a partnership, she felt like she had seen more of him this night than any other.

“What do you think?”

She raised a brow in concession and chose taking another swig instead of responding. Varric sighed.

“Another round?”

“I’d love one, but I should get home.” She made no move to get up.

Varric smiled, tired and a little surprised. “I’ll grab that round.”

Hawke opened her mouth to refuse which, from the look of it, Varric had been expecting. Just waiting for a second negative from Hawke to confirm, but he looked like he wanted some company. _She_ could use some company. Well, she’d stumbled home at dawn before.

“All right,” she conceded. “Thanks.”

 

6.

Even when compared to their encounter with the Grey Warden, it didn’t take Varric long to realize that Hawke was a little off herself. “Off” as in willing to stand in the way of a charging Tal-Vashoth.

When the hulking beast lowered his spear and ran toward them, Varric, Bethany, and Aveline all dove out of the way. Hawke, on the other hand, held her ground, daggers drawn and smirk firmly in place. Varric was also learning that her smirk didn’t always promise good things.

Varric shouted for her but she ignored him, the glint in her eyes causing real terror to sink into his stomach. He betrayed every instinct and sprinted to her, yanked her back by her belt, and threw her to the ground beneath him just as the Tal-Vashoth charged by. The ground shook and his teeth chattered, making him grimace involuntarily and grab Hawke tighter. Aveline’s shout rang across the fight, followed by the sound of metal on flesh.

Assured for the moment that the Tal-Vashoth were otherwise occupied, Varric sat up. His arm was still around Hawke’s waist, though he wasn’t sure if it was to make sure she was safe or to comfort himself. As he sat there, Hawke shifting to right herself beneath his hand, he thought to himself that she was awfully thin. He’d have to start buying her dinner to make sure she actually ate. The Hanged Man wasn’t known for its cuisine (it _was_ known for its ale, though not in a good way), but it was better than nothing. Judging by the ribs he felt, _nothing_ seemed like a good estimate of her eating habits.

Hawke sat up, her features flushed with exhilaration. She sought out the dagger she’d dropped in Varric’s haste to throw her down to safety.

“Hawke, are you crazy?” He wanted to sound angry—he’d have even taken scolding—but the voice that left him was decidedly awestruck.

“That depends. Would a crazy person do this?”

She rolled on her back and used the momentum to spring to her feet and charge down one of the remaining spearmen. A quick duck and slash and he fell. Then she was almost too fast to follow, darting between the Tal-Vashoth and dropping them with just a few vital strikes. A trail of bodies was left in her wake.

Varric watched from his spot on the ground. He’d have to get used to this. It had been a long time since he’d been in the middle of a fray this consistently. The final body fell and Hawke turned to him with a crooked smirk.

“Yes, Hawke,” he said at last, unable to help his own grin. “A crazy person _would_ do that.”

He began bringing her into his stories the next day. It happened without any planning. He’d simply reached the end of a well-rehearsed tale and the crowd wanted more. After a brief pause, and for the first time in a very long time, Varric found his tongue weaving a tale with no idea where it was going.

It started with a Fereldan woman, a refugee who had beaten the odds and started making a name for herself. She’d overcome the horrors of Ostagar, then fought an ogre and lived to tell the tale. She’d faced Tal-Vashoth along the roads out of Kirkwall and stared them down fearlessly.

The crowd ate it up. Their eyes had initially glazed over at “Fereldan refugee,” but Varric only needed a few moments to draw them in. As he described the sights and sounds of Ostagar (all fabricated, of course), and the dozens of darkspawn taken out by Hawke in her desperation to escape death, they leaned in with wide eyes and bated breath. Every adventure he accompanied her on gave him more fuel and, after just a few tales, the crowd came asking for the latest news of Hawke’s adventures.

In all honesty, Varric felt as swept up by the stories as his patrons. He’d started neglecting his paperwork to make time to tag along with her throughout the city. For someone who tried to keep a low profile, Hawke had a natural pull about her. It was the only way he could explain his tolerance for the depraved corners of the city that she brought him to, proving that he _didn’t_ actually know Kirkwall like the back of his hand as he’d previously thought. Varric had told himself that this partnership wasn’t charity, per se, but rather an extension of himself for Hawke. He’d expected to become a sort of mentor to her, showing her the city’s ropes, but as her contacts from the Red Iron extended their services to him, he had to accept that their partnership was on more equal footing than he’d anticipated.

The touching, though, needed to be addressed. Varric was not a huge fan of physical contact. A clap on the shoulder or a shaken hand to seal a deal were different, but he found himself having to keep from reaching out to her. Some sense of understanding and of being understood that made him feel like they were old friends, rather than recent acquaintances. He’d limited himself to little nudges and prods, but nothing like the chummy arm he wanted to throw around her shoulders.

And he understood why Hawke was hesitant to put all her trust in him, he _did_. She did her best to make sure her mistrust wasn’t obvious, but he wasn’t blind to the empty seats between them. He’d done what he could to reassure her and would have to just keep moving on, no matter how frustrating it was to have his efforts met with such hardheadedness. It was clear that she hadn’t been able to relax in ages, and the naturalness of their partnership only seemed to worsen her mistrust. Hawke bore many a burden on her shoulders, most of which he wasn’t privy to. He wanted to be, though. A story here or a joke there might be what she needed to forget her troubles, if only for a little while. He’d have to trust that she’d warm up to him eventually.

It seemed like more than a distant possibility when Hawke happened to walk through the Hanged Man’s door while he regaled the crowd with another tale about her. At the first mention of her name, she’d paused and stopped at the fringes of the crowd. Varric let her think he hadn’t noticed her.

“Then,” he continued, “with a twirl of her blades, Hawke leapt into the air and came down on the leader. Poor bastard saw it coming, but couldn’t match her speed. I don’t think the Sharps Highwaymen will be prowling the streets anymore.”

The crowd erupted in excited murmuring as they dispersed, and Hawke finally came forward, face unreadable. Varric swallowed his frustration. Ordinarily, he was a quick study of peoples’ subtleties. A few hours, a few drinks, and Varric would have a very good idea of what made someone tick. It was going on two weeks now since he’d met Hawke and he was no closer to finding the breaks in her mask.

Hawke jerked her head in the direction of his suite. He nodded, waving over at Corff for two pints before leading her up. She sat next to him, a move which finally proved he _had_ made progress. It was the reassurance he needed to relax around her. Maybe he’d overlooked her growing comfort around him in his efforts to make her more comfortable. He breathed a sigh of satisfaction and, for once, stopped walking on eggshells around her.

“That was about me,” she said slowly.

“It was.”

“Why?”

He shrugged, shifting his attention to Norah as she entered with their drinks. “I knew they’d go crazy for it.”

She considered, staring at him with those damned blank eyes of hers. He hoped she was beginning to see that he wasn’t trying to screw her over.

“Would you rather I not?”

She rubbed the back of her neck and looked at the table. “Do what you want. But maybe not when I’m around. It’s, ah…” She paused to let out a nervous laugh. “It’s a little embarrassing.”

“Is it?”

She nodded into her mug. Her eyes darted to his and away again.

“All right, then. So, what brings you here? Don’t tell me something else came up already.”

“No, nothing like that. Just checking in about the expedition. I wanted to know more about you, actually, since we’ll be diving into the Deep Roads together. And considering you’ve gotten a decent portion of my life story already, I think it’s only fair.”

Varric grinned. Hawke hadn’t sought him out on her own before just to talk to him. Sure, she stayed when he invited her to a drink or three, but she only grabbed him for outings. Never to talk—and about himself, no less. He _had_ been overlooking their progress.

“You’re in luck, messere. I’m always willing to talk about myself to beautiful women.”

 

//

 

Hawke internally recoiled like a hand on a hot stove. Her hackles rose and she fought to maintain control of her expression. She narrowed her eyes at him enough that he saw the change, but not enough to be threatening. There was an immediate shift in the air between them, like a sudden drop in temperature. She watched to see if he felt it.

His mouth opened, about to begin his autobiographical tale, but he paused to watch her with carefully concealed confusion.

“What? Don’t tell me you’ve never been complimented before.”

“Oh, I have,” she said lightly, but watched him with open suspicion. “But rarely by anyone who’s seen me next to Bethany. That usually means they want something from me.”

Varric blinked and raised his eyebrows.

Hawke continued. “Since you’ve already got my promise of fifty sovereigns, I’m wondering what else it is you want.”

“I’d settle for less suspicion.” His voice took on a flippant, salesman-like quality, and Hawke realized that she hadn’t heard anything like it since their first meeting.

He seemed insulted. Good. That would give him pause the next time he tried buttering her up. He’d talked his way out of enough already, but if he wanted her trust he’d have to forego the flattery.

“Well, I’d settle for a little less bullshit.”

Varric’s face wiped itself blank, his easy grin taking its protective place.

“What do you think I want from you?”

“I’m still trying to figure that out. Maybe you _are_ genuine. Or maybe you want expendable muscle to get you into the Deep Roads, then leave it behind once you have your treasure. No-name Fereldans have been good for that in Kirkwall lately.”

“That shows how little you know me,” he said so lightly she _knew_ she’d insulted him. “I’m the last person who wants to go into the blighted Deep Roads in the first place, and I’m the last person who would leave others to their deaths there.”

“So you say. Words are easy and you seem to have an abundance of them.”

A push—perhaps an unnecessary one. She’d gotten what she wanted from the exchange: she’d made his mask falter enough to get a feel for what his honesty sounded like. She hadn’t realized how much their interactions had changed over the course of the past two weeks, though; how much they’d warmed up to one another. His insult was obvious to her. It seemed that she was the only one who had been struggling with trusting this partnership. He had trusted her just fine, until this moment.

He was good, though. Maybe as good as she was. That unflappable façade wasn’t so unflappable after all, but she didn’t want to back him into a corner like that again. Not without reason, at least.

“You don’t trust me,” he said, with a touch of disappointment.

“I _do_ trust you, actually, which is precisely why I’m so wary of you.”

The mask fell away for open surprise—he clearly hadn’t expected that.

Hawke had said her piece. She drank from her mug and waited. Varric eyed her much as she had eyed him after the initial compliment.

“It’s true that words are really all I have, so I’m aware they aren’t worth much. But I promise you this: if you die in the Deep Roads, I’ll already be dead right beside you.”

This was the first conversation they’d had that wasn’t drenched in flippancy and sarcasm. There was an earnest intensity in his expression that Hawke couldn’t look away from. He extended his hand and Hawke felt hers enfolded in warmth before she even realized she’d reached back. They shook and Varric squeezed her hand one last time, trying to impart his sincerity.

“I suppose I can’t really argue with that,” she said with a crooked grin. The tension between them eased. “But let’s try very hard not to die down there.”

Varric lifted his mug. “I’ll drink to that.”

Hawke lifted her own and tapped his. They drank, and the silence that followed wasn’t awkward.

“Can I talk about myself now?” he asked after finishing the last of his pint.

Hawke laughed. “I’m all ears.”

 

 

7.

After Hawke and Varric finally had a long talk with Anders about his “extra passenger,” they returned to the Hanged Man. Hawke had complained on the way back that she felt more in need of a drink the past two weeks than she had in ten years. They were barely through the door when Varric felt a hand latch onto his arm like iron and tug him against the wall. Jarred, he looked up and met Hawke’s gaze. She pointedly turned to the bar where a group of heavily-armed men had surrounded a woman. Her grip hadn’t loosened, but her free hand was twitching toward a dagger. That was something about Hawke he was still getting used to—her twitchiness. He supposed it had kept her alive up until now, but it got his adrenaline pumping in situations where it wasn’t needed.

Then the woman at the bar—dark and intense, but very different from Hawke—promptly wove her way through her attackers, knocking out three of the four brutes. The last man fled after she spared him at the tip of her blade, and she returned to her drink without batting an eye.

Hawke’s tension deflated at once. She seemed relieved, but Varric got the feeling there was some disappointment in the mix, too. She looked down at him again to comment on the spectacle, realized she was still holding onto him, and abruptly let go with a few friendly pats for distance.

“Varric,” she said curtly.

“Hawke,” he answered, though he was unsure of the question. “I think we should chat her up, don’t you?”

By now Hawke had focused her attention on the woman, her gaze taking on an undiscernible quality. It would still be a while before he could read every twitch of her brow and glint of her eyes. She maintained it throughout their conversation with the pirate. Calculating, but not quite.

Later, after agreeing to help the former-Captain Isabela, Hawke and Varric left the Hanged Man to find backup. They still wanted to avoid Anders until they figured out what to do with him, but bringing Aveline to another nighttime scuffle was a bad idea. Hawke still hadn’t spoken to Aveline about confrontation in the Chantry. If she could avoid telling the guardswoman about this, she would.

Once she was sure they weren’t being followed by Isabela, Hawke put a hand on Varric’s shoulder and leaned in close.

“What have we gotten ourselves into _this_ time?” she said.

Varric raised a brow, looked deliberately at her hand, and back up.

She didn’t understand why at first, until a nudge of his shoulder helped it dawn on her. She used the hand to shove him forward—not gently—and rolled her eyes. Varric fell out of step and cackled.

“You’re terribly annoying,” Hawke said. “I’m starting to understand why Bartrand’s so grumpy.”

“Hey, now,” Varric said, placatingly. “Let’s not stoop to low blows. I have better reach than you.”

“Short jokes at your own expense, Varric?”

He smirked up at her. Progress was progress. Varric was making headway, slow though it was. If they kept running into people unable to handle their own shit, he had a feeling he and Hawke would become fast friends, if only to cope with the crazy.

“So, what’s the plan, fearless leader?”

Hawke quirked a brow and shoved him again, though a little gentler this time.

//

Hawke didn’t think Isabela would actually accompany them. Her interest seemed like well-meant bullshit. “Thanks for killing people for me! Have a nice life!” But the next day, Hawke arrived at Varric’s suite and found the pirate sitting at his table, trying his patience.

“Hawke!” Isabela said. “There you are! What do you say to a game of Wicked Grace?”

Hawke glanced at Varric, trying to gauge his thoughts. A single slow blink hid his rolling eyes. She pursed her lips to keep herself from smiling and sat next to Isabela.

“Maybe later?” Hawke said. “I was actually here to talk to Varric about something.”

Isabela didn’t get the hint. Or maybe she did and didn’t care.

“Go on, Hawke,” he said.

“Did you want to find Anso tonight? We should follow up on that lead soon. I mean, it’s been a week, now.”

“Might as well.”

Hawke’s next sentence was cut off my Isabela leaning in closer with her chin on her hand.

“Hawke, we’re friends, right?” Isabela said.

Hawke instinctively leaned away. “If killing people for you in the Chantry at midnight counts for anything, I guess?”

“I’d say so. Good. As your friend, what are you doing with your hair?”

Hawke self-consciously ran a hand over the back of her head, tugging at the shaggy locks. “Um, nothing?”

“You didn’t have to tell me that. I mean, how did it come to look like _that_?”

Hawke glanced at Varric, who seemed to be hiding a grin in his mug.

“It looks like you put a bowl on your head and just started cutting,” Isabela continued. “It looks awful.”

“Gee, thanks, Isabela,” Hawke deadpanned. “So glad we’re at the brutally honest point in our friendship.”

“I can fix it.”

Hawke paused. Isabela’s judgement about her current hairstyle hadn’t been that far off. (The bowl was absolutely wrong, though—Hawke had eyeballed it.)

“That’s a yes. All right, let’s see…”

Isabela drew both of her daggers and judged the sharpest blade. Satisfied, she got up and circled around to the back of Hawke’s chair.

“Wait, Isabela I—”

“Hush.”

Varric laughed.

“I’m feeling very offended right now,” Hawke said. She winced as the dagger brushed her ear.

“Don’t be dramatic,” Isabela said. “I’m actually quite good at this. Who’s Anso?”

Hawke found herself with a new haircut that she couldn’t complain about, no matter how hard she tried, Isabela volunteered to tag along later that night, and they found another brand of crazy joining them: Fenris.

//

The sky has begun to glow with the approaching sunrise, but the nighttime gangs would continue to lurk in the shadows for several hours more. The buildings in the slums had shifted throughout the centuries until they leaned precariously over the alleys, blocking out the morning light until the noon sun cleared the shadows away. Varric had yet to complete his bribes to the Carta and Coterie to guarantee the Hawke sisters safe passage. The least he could do in the meantime was accompany them home.

Bethany stumbled, nearly too exhausted to make the trip. Hawke righted her and tried to quicken their pace. Her eyes darted to the darker corners, keeping an eye out for movement in the shadows. At least she was vigilant, even in her own exhaustion. She did look more accustomed to staying out this late than Bethany. More ruffled than usual, maybe, but that wasn’t saying much.

“It’s up the stairs here,” she said to break the silence.

Varric knew that she knew that _he_ knew very well where they lived. He also knew that she was hinting for him to be on his way, but he ignored it. He had seen plenty of slums in his life, but he felt compelled to see where they lived. The expedition was a business opportunity for him—a way of making quite a bit of coin quite quickly. For them, the expedition was their only way out of all of this. Varric needed a reminder of their situation.

Hawke let Bethany head up the steps first and glanced at him.

“I think we’ll manage the stairs, Varric,” she said. The grin was meant to be reassuring, but it was fake. Wooden. He wondered when he’d learned the difference.

“I’m a perfect gentleman, Hawke,” he said, returning her light tone. “I can’t rest my conscience until I know you’re both tucked in safe.”

Hawke rolled her eyes and sighed.

Bethany giggled. “Tucked into what?” she said to Hawke, who wryly returned her sister’s smile.

“Well, Varric, I think you’re going to be disappointed,” Hawke said, leading him up.

Bethany unlocked the door and entered first. Someone shouted inside.

“Where have you been?” A woman—the mother, presumably.

Hawke’s shoulders tensed. She took a deep breath and seemed to shrink when she let it out. Varric followed her in, closing the door after him. A little damage control may be in order and damage control may as well be his middle name.

The hovel itself was about what he had expected. Dark, damp, dirty. Standard fare for the poor. It was harder to stomach when he knew the inhabitants.

Bethany was in the tight embrace of an older woman, who by no means looked old. She retained a noble posture that made her look out of place in the grimy apartment. She was beautiful. Varric could see Bethany in nearly every feature.

“I’ve been worried sick!” The woman directed very clearly at Hawke.

“Sorry, Mother. We got a little sidetracked.”

“I’ll say,” the mother said. She released Bethany. “You could have at least sent your sister home. Do you know what time it is?”

“Mother—” Bethany tried to interject.

“Yes, I can see the sun,” Hawke remarked. The sarcasm fell flat.

It was the resignation in Hawke’s voice that made him speak up. He hadn’t seen anything this close to defeat in her before now, and decidedly did not like it.

“Beg pardon, messere,” he said.

They all turned to him. Hawke stiffened.

“Who are you?” The mother hadn’t taken notice of him until this moment. Her anger turned to a dismissive stare.

“Varric Tethras, messere.” He stepped forward, took her hand, and pressed his lips to her knuckles. “I’m afraid it’s my fault your daughters were out so late. They were helping me with a delicate manner that took longer than anticipated. Please, direct your anger at me.”

He saw Hawke flinch out of the corner of his eye.

“Tethras? The author?”

“Why, yes.” He feigned an honored surprise. He had been hoping for this reaction.

She blushed. He felt, more than saw, Hawke’s jaw drop.

“Oh my, I can’t believe you’re—Serah Tethras, I am _such_ a fan of your work.”

“Varric, please. And may I ask your…?”

“Oh! I’ve forgotten my manners. Leandra Hawke.”

Varric turned up the charm, shifting the atmosphere of the entire hovel. To his side, the tension in Hawke’s body faded with a disbelieving sigh. Bethany watched the exchange with delight.

“What a pleasure to finally meet the beautiful mother of these two ladies.”

Hawke coughed, covering her scoff.

Leandra was completely flustered. Varric released her hand and she placed it over her heart.

“I apologize to have caused you such worry once again, Serah Hawke. Have a lovely day,” he said smoothly and turned on his heel to leave.

 

//

 

The three of them stood there staring at the door.

“I should, um,” Hawke trailed off awkwardly, pointing to the door. “I’ll be right back.”

She walked out, closing the door behind her. She had expected Varric to be nearly out of sight already, but instead found him leaning against the rail. His grin turned to a smirk at her surprise. Hawke crossed her arms without thinking of the defensive appearance. Part of her wanted to ask how he knew she’d come after him. The rest of her didn’t care.

“All right, I admit it. I’m a little in awe.”

He smirked.

“Don’t let it go to your head,” she said, then chuckled in disbelief. “I’ve never seen her change her tune so quickly before.”

“One of the many services I provide,” he said with a bow.

“You should have led with that instead of ‘a measly fifty sovereigns.’ ”

“Those were _not_ my words.”

“They’re close enough,” Hawke said, unable to keep herself from grinning. “I didn’t know she read your books.” She paused. “I don’t even know what your books are about.”

Varric cleared his throat, chuckled, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I don’t think they’d interest you.”

She watched as he jerked his hand away from his face in a poor attempt at casualness. _Is he embarrassed?_

“Why’s that?”

“No dragons, for one.”

She felt her expression cool in disinterest. Varric laughed.

This was…nice. Varric was beginning to feel less like a con artist and more like a, well. Not a friend—not yet—but a partner.

“Inquiring minds would like to know how that would have gone without my timely interference.”

Hawke snorted and bent at the waist to stare down at her feet, her arms still crossed. “ _Inquiring minds_ can probably guess well enough.”

Varric remained silent. She got the feeling he was finally learning where her boundaries were, which had the interesting effect of making her neglect said boundaries herself.

“I only ever kept Bethany out late a few times,” she said to her feet. “They were always jobs with the Red Iron that went terribly. We’d show up late, bleeding, and I’d get an earful about how I was putting another of her children’s lives at risk.”

Why was she still talking? He didn’t need to hear about her family issues—but she really needed to be heard. Something she hadn’t realized until he’d given her the chance.

She covered her exhaustion and frustration with a thin veneer of humor and looked up again.

“We’re, ah, not the closest.”

Varric watched her neutrally.

“Sorry about, um, yeah,” she said, gesturing awkwardly and dropping her eyes to her feet again. “And thanks for, you know.”

She pointed vaguely behind her and turned to let him go on his way.

“Hawke.”

She couldn’t trust her mask, so she tilted her head without turning to let him know she’d heard.

“Come by for drinks when you clean up.”

That did make her turn, eyebrows raised.

“The sun isn’t even up.”

He grinned. “I was talking about coffee, but I wouldn’t say no to a pint in an hour or so.”

Hawke laughed self-consciously. “Coffee sounds good, actually. Does the Hanged Man have any cots? I’m going to crash fairly soon. Probably before the pints.”

“I’m sure we can find something.”

She left him with a wave and closed the door behind her.

 

 

8.

“Perfect timing, Hawke,” Varric announced as she walked through the door.

Her greeting unceremoniously cut off, Hawke closed her mouth and stopped short in the doorway.

“For what?

“You’re going to meet my brother today.”

“I’ve already had the pleasure,” she said dryly. “Wouldn’t want to spoil myself.”

“That was before he knew who you were,” Varric said. The salesman was seeping back into his voice. “And before you were a partner.”

“I was hoping we could just find some raiders to pummel.”

Varric moved around the table and held out an arm, naturally herding her back out the door. “We need to give him the maps. Might as well formally introduce the two of you.”

Hawke turned with him, but frowned in displeasure. “You can give him the maps yourself. “

“True, but he needs to know you’ll be fronting a third of the coin. “

She stopped, stumbling when Varric tried to continue forward with his arm around her waist. “He doesn’t know that I’m a partner?”

“Strictly speaking? No.”

“So, I’m running myself ragged with the possibility of _still_ being denied a spot on the expedition?” She felt her pulse quicken. Scenarios ran through her head, each involving some iteration of her family on the streets and starving.

Varric moved in front of her, a hand on each of her arms. The touch was grounding. “You’re on the expedition. Nothing Bartrand says will change that.”

Hawke took a breath, held it, and let it out.

“Okay?” Varric asked.

She nodded. “Okay.”

Varric released her arms, but gave one a hearty pat before he turned back toward the Hanged Man’s door.

The Merchants Guild square was bustling as usual. Dwarves argued over ledgers, carried crates to and fro, and argued some more. Varric pushed something into her chest and she automatically took it—the maps. He tugged her along toward the largest of the Paragon statues where Bartrand stood.

“Bartrand!” he shouted over the crowd of people gathered around his brother.

Hawke watched as a similarly sandy-haired dwarf craned his neck over the people milling about.

“What is it?”

Hawke swallowed, letting Varric drag her forward through the crowd. Many of the people looked to be reviewing deliveries of mining gear, but many more were now staring at the tallest human in the square.

“Just checking in on how things are going.”

“ _How things are going?_ ” Bartrand mimicked. “If you were _around_ you’d know how things are going! We’re at a dead end. The last entrance was a bust and I’m scrambling to replace the supplies we lost in the cave in.”

Hawke suppressed a flinch and tried not to look as awkward as she felt, which was difficult when she stood about two feet away from the arguing brothers. As an eldest child herself, Hawke could appreciate a good fight between siblings—she’d managed the twins very well, until Carver had grown a full foot in a year and she’d lost her height advantage. But Varric and Bartrand appeared to be on lesser terms from the start and, despite Varric’s insistence on this conversation, he seemed tenser than she did. His shoulders were high and stiff, all posturing and forced lightness. Whenever Bartrand raised his voice—which he did rather often—Varric’s fingers twitched into a fist. Every mollifying assertion by Varric turned Bartrand a darker shade of red. It was fascinating. Hawke felt her awkwardness abating as she watched the two.

Seeing Varric’s thinly-veiled frustration was particularly satisfying. She’d felt like she was being dragged along by Varric this whole time, blindly hoping her trust in him wouldn’t lead to a stab in the back. But this, paired with their confrontation just a week ago, made her realize that she wasn’t a passive pawn in his schemes. She had started noticing more of his little quirks. The tightness in his voice when he responded to Bartrand’s demanding questions. The way his reassuring smiles didn’t reach his eyes. The deep, steadying breaths hidden by his careless shrugs. Hawke couldn’t remember when she’d begun to notice these things, but there they were. Clear as day.

“That’s why I’m here. I may have a solution to our troubles. Allow me to introduce you to our new partner.”

Varric swept an arm in Hawke’s direction and she abruptly returned her attention to the conversation. Bartrand stared. Unsure what else to do and feeling rather awkward, Hawke lifted a hand in a wave and anxiously looked between the siblings.

“ _Partner_?” Bartrand nearly shouted. The men milling about the expedition logs inched away.

“This is—” Varric paused for half a beat. “—Hawke. She’s secured us maps of the Deep Roads in the area.”

Bartrand paused his next stream of negativity. “Maps?”

Varric gestured at her and she relinquished the maps he’d handed her just minutes ago.

“Maps,” he confirmed, handing them over.

Bartrand reviewed them, eyes rapidly scanning the details. He looked up and stared at Hawke.

“At least five— _six_ good entrances! Where did you get these?”

Varric glanced at her expectantly, ready to jump in if there was too long a pause.

“I have my ways,” she replied, returning Varric’s stare instead of Bartrand’s.

His mouth twitched toward a smile.

“With more coin we can resupply and scout for the best one,” Bartrand said.

“We’re working on that,” Varric said. “You can count on fifty sovereigns, but we should still harass our other investors.”

Bartrand looked back at her with less hostility, thankfully. “Hawke, was it? You get me that coin and I’ll gladly call you partner.”

“We’ll keep you updated,” she said.

Bartrand grunted in response and turned to one of his assistants, waving them over to look at the maps.

Varric turned to her and tried to keep his expression neutral, but came up just short. She didn’t know exactly what he was thinking, but she felt herself rise a step in his estimation.

“Back to the Hanged Man?” he asked. “I’ll put you on my tab.”

“It’s rather early, but sure.”

They left the Guild square and made the journey back down to the Hanged Man.

“Shouldn’t we be finding more coin?” she asked as they passed through the tavern’s main room. “I’ve barely got ten sovereigns.”

Varric flagged down Edwina for drinks and continued to usher Hawke to his suite. “Tomorrow. Today, we drink. I need to ask you something.”

She sat in the seat to Varric’s right, which had turned into Hers at some point that she couldn’t recall. Edwina followed them with two pints.

“Your tab’s overdue,” she said curtly.

“I’m good for it,” Varric responded.

Edwina scoffed, but left them alone.

Hawke took a swig and suppressed a grimace. “So. What did you want to ask me?”

Varric rubbed at the bridge of his nose, avoiding her eyes. “Right. It’s, ah, a bit embarrassing.”

Her eyes caught the movement and connected it to his sudden change in demeanor. “How embarrassing?”

“For me? Very.”

“This _is_ surprising.”

“Don’t get used to it,” he grumbled. He drank from his mug, emptying half of it, and looked up at her frankly. “I’ve realized that I don’t know your name.”

“What?” She laughed.

“I don’t know your name.”

She took another swig in consideration. “I got the impression from your introduction that you knew everything about me.”

“And that’s the impression I wanted to impart. But when I said the name ‘Hawke’ was on many lips, I meant it. _Just_ ‘Hawke.’ And my contacts weren’t much more help.”

She laughed again, more freely. It was comforting, somehow, knowing that Varric didn’t actually know everything, especially about her. “And you didn’t think to ask Bethany or my mother?”

“I’m trying to maintain the illusion that I _do_ know everything.”

“Aveline?”

Varric scoffed. “Like I’m going to give her more reason to dislike me.”

Hawke used her mug to hide the grin that had spread across her face. Her illusions of Varric, which had already begun to crack, shattered.

“Unless you’re opposed to telling me…?” Varric trailed off in a pathetic pass for nonchalance.

Hawke barked a laugh. “It’s not that. I’m just seeing you very differently now.”

“I’m not sure I like that, either.”

“It’s a good thing, trust me.” She watched him take another drink. “And it’s Niamh.”

It took Varric a moment to absorb what she’d said. Then he stared, first at her, then through her. She imagined him reexamining their previous interactions and replacing Just Hawke with Niamh Hawke. His distraction gave her the chance to watch him. The miniscule changes in his face fascinated her as she followed his thoughts as best she could. Then his eyes refocused on hers intently, making her breath catch in the transition.

“Niamh,” he said at last, weighing her name on his tongue.

It sounded nice in his voice.

He shifted forward in his seat, extending a hand. She automatically reached back. A new introduction did seem to be in order.

“Varric Tethras,” he said with a grin.

“Niamh Hawke.”

“Good,” he said, releasing her hand and sitting back. “Glad that’s over with. Now I’d appreciate it if you returned to thinking I know everything.”

“Sorry, Varric. Too late for that.”

He sighed.

“Nothing else you’re dying to know about me?”

“Not at the moment, no. But you’ll know when I do.”

She rolled her eyes.

“So, Niamh—”

Hawke laughed again, loudly, but not humorously. Her name did sound awfully nice coming from him— _too_ nice—which was exactly why she needed to stop it.

“Don’t,” she said good-naturedly. “ ‘Niamh’ is pretty, but it’s always felt a little soft for me, you know? I got used to the soldiers calling me Hawke and it’s stuck ever since.”

“You think ‘Niamh’ is too soft for you?”

“Have you met me?” She chuckled and sipped her ale, hoping to look embarrassed rather than full of shit.

“I believe I’ve had the pleasure, yes.” He had the good sense not to comment on her awkwardness, and her lie seemed to go unnoticed. “If you prefer Hawke, Hawke it is.”

“Thank you.”

“Another question.”

She groaned. “Go ahead.”

“If you don’t want to talk about it, I understand, but you were at Ostagar with your brother, right?”

“That’s right.” She realized she _could_ talk about Carver with him. Not at length maybe, but thinking of him no longer made her recoil from guilt.

“And you said the soldiers called you Hawke.”

“Yes.”

“What did they call him?”

Whatever she’d expected, it wasn’t that. She barked laughter, covering her face with a hand at the memory.

“Junior.”

Varric laughed harder than she expected for someone who had never met Carver. Then again, she imagined he knew very well what it was like to live in the shadow of an older sibling. “I imagine he took that well.”

“He wouldn’t speak to me for three weeks! Avoided me everywhere. I think Captain Varel knew it bothered him and always addressed me by ‘Hawke’ when Carver was around.”

Hawke finished her drink to cover the residual ache of his death and they lapsed into silence. Varric refilled their mugs and they drank the rest of the day, joined briefly by Isabela and Anders for a few games of Wicked Grace, and briefer still by Aveline for an update on the dock’s smugglers.

After the sun set, Bethany came to check on where her sister had been. Hawke reassured her and sent her on her way. They drank another round, tapering off into silence.

“Should I walk you home?”

Hawke finished off the last of her ale. “I was actually wondering if I could grab that cot again?”

Varric paused so briefly she nearly missed it. “Of course.”

He retrieved one and, with her help, set it up beside his table as politely far away from his own bed as possible. Hawke nodded her thanks and let herself spend a night in a room that wasn’t a constant reminder of her family’s destitution.

 

 

 9.

Despite the comfort of the cot, Hawke struggled to fall asleep. Judging by the snores coming from Varric’s bed, he didn’t have the same issue. She couldn’t get her thoughts to stop, couldn’t will her breathing to slow. The harder she tried not to think, the more her thoughts raced. It was particularly frustrating after a day spent in good company.

She dwelled on how it bothered her—the touching. _Varric_ touching her. More than that, Hawke was bothered by the fact that she _was_ so bothered by it. Their partnership had grown so quickly that it felt natural—normal. _That_ didn’t bother her. He was never overly familiar, and she didn’t think he had an ulterior motive like Isabela, who constantly draped herself across Hawke with the clear intention of getting her in bed. _That_ didn’t bother her, either. So why did she let herself feel annoyed when Varric touched her?

Most annoying of all was that, regardless of how uncomfortable she felt by his touch, the absence of it she felt even stronger. The moments where he could give her a nudge but didn’t caused an itch beneath her skin. A hunger for what she didn’t even want, or think she wanted. She’d caught herself leaning into his hand on her back, moving as close as she dared without causing him to notice. Hell, she’d nearly asked him to touch her again after he took hold of her chin to examine a cut. Did friends do that?

Were they friends?

She’d never really had friends. She’d barely had acquaintances.

This was exhausting. Life may have been scarier running from the Templars, sure, but it had been simpler. Lonelier, too, now that she thought about it. The role she’d taken as family protector hadn’t allowed room for her to be anything other than strong. Hawke had put her own needs last since the moment Bethany’s magic manifested. Before Father became bedridden. Before Carver decided to put his own desires first as the darkspawn horde descended upon Ferelden. The family always needed more protection and Hawke was the only one there to provide it.

Life was less lonely now, though, mostly thanks to Varric.

And it hit her. Maybe Hawke didn’t want to be touched, but she needed it. Ever since she’d taken on her father’s mantle, she’d been starved for it. She needed _comfort_ and, for the first time in well over a decade, life had slowed down enough for her to realize it. That Varric was the one providing it—unwittingly, most likely—had thrown her off. It was a role that should have been provided by her family, and had been years ago. But Father was dead; Mother blamed her for Carver’s death; and the thought of Bethany realizing just how brittle Hawke had grown was too much to stand.

A hug, a hand, a nudge— _anything._ The more fragile around the edges Hawke grew, the more she needed it.

Hawke felt bitter that she’d gone without comfort for so long that it made her uncomfortable now. It was a startling revelation, and one that she took little pleasure in. For the first time in a long time she had to consider her own sanity at all.

Well. It wouldn’t kill her to be more accommodating to Varric. She knew she had a tendency to lash out when she was stressed, and she was always stressed these days. Kirkwall was adding to her burdens by the day, but Varric seemed willing to help her shoulder some of them. He didn’t deserve her short temper. He, of all her new acquaintances ( _friends_ ; the word blared in her head), had offered her the most help, the support and reassurance that she craved so desperately. Varric had stood by her side, backing up her decisions and providing the solid presence she needed. She had to lighten up—Maker knew he deserved less scrutiny. She’d confronted him about her concerns and felt fairly confident that he wasn’t bullshitting her. Her hackles didn’t have to be up all the time, especially around someone she enjoyed the company of.

A startled snore distracted her from her thoughts. She held her breath as Varric’s own breathing settled back into its slow rhythm. Focused on the sound of it, Hawke slowly matched her own to his. Her mind quieted, and she finally drifted off to sleep.

 

 

10.

Sweat beaded on Thrask’s brow. Hawke swallowed and heard her throat click. From Thrask’s explanation of the plan, Hawke assumed that any other Templars would have been thrown off the trail, not greeting her as she exited the cave. She was far from a fan of the Templars, but that didn’t mean she wanted to run about murdering them all and that was looking like her only option at the moment. She crossed her arms to disguise the knife in her sleeve that she was inching out. If she managed to hit Ser Karras’s throat, that would be one less to deal with.

Someone stepped beside her, brushing against her hip. The proximity hid the hand that briefly held her back. _Allow me_ , it said. Hawke wanted to save the mages almost as desperately as she wanted their fate out of her hands. With no other ideas to solve this without bloodshed, she nudged him with her hip.

Varric stepped forward and wove a tale about Hawke, a foreign Templar brought in specifically by Knight-Commander Meredith to investigate this situation. Specifically. Hawke suppressed the surprise and disbelief that naturally arose with his story, keeping her face business-like to aid the lie. Ser Karras occasionally glanced at her, comparing her to the image Varric painted with his words, but the tension in his shoulders had lessened by the end of Varric’s tale. Karras sheathed his sword and turned to his men.

“They escaped out a rear exit and fled toward the coast,” Hawke supplied.

“We can cut through the hills,” Karras said. He directed the other Templars to follow him and they marched off.

“Thank you for your help,” Thrask said. “Hopefully, they have enough time to escape.”

He shook Hawke’s hand and jogged after his fellows.

“Are you sure this is wise?” Fenris said.

“I’m never sure about anything.”

They watched the Templars disappear behind a rocky outcropping and Fenris let out a grunt.

Hawke turned to Varric. “You know, I’m developing quite the appreciation for your silver tongue.”

Isabela whistled behind them.

“Go away, Isabela,” Hawke remarked.

Varric chuckled. “At your service, messere.”

“And despite my appreciation, I still want to rip it out sometimes.”

Varric held a hand to his chest in mock hurt and Hawke nudged him with her elbow. They headed back over the sandy hills the way they came, exhausted after the stress of the day. It was slow going and the sun sank faster than they could progress.

“The sun’s going to set long before we make it to the main road,” Hawke said.

“So, what? We walk faster?” Varric asked.

“No,” Hawke drawled slowly, as if speaking to a child. “We camp out the night.”

Varric stopped short. “You’re not serious.”

“Never personally, but about this? Yes. Why? Not a fan of camping, Varric?”

“We don’t have tents,” he offered weakly.

Fenris scoffed. “City folk.”

“It’s a lovely night,” Isabela said. She looked oddly wistful for a change. “And the sea is so close.”

“We’re _outside_. Who knows what can sneak up on us while we’re sleeping _in the open_ ,” Varric argued.

“That’s what a watch is for,” Hawke said. She was thoroughly enjoying Varric’s aversion to nature. “Fenris?”

Fenris grunted in assent.

They veered off the path and found a small clearing. The night wasn’t cold, but they built a fire for comfort in the absence of any sleeping rolls or blankets. Sleep took most of them quickly after a full day of trekking through the Wounded Coast. Fenris’s watch ended with no cause for alarm and Hawke sat up for hers.

The grasses whispered around them in the breeze and some insect she didn’t know sang out a chattering hum that rose and fell in waves, joined by what sounded like hundreds of others. The Wounded Coast’s tides were over a mile away, but when the breeze died down she could just make out the crashing of the waves. She smelled the salt in the air and found it almost as comforting as the damp, earthy smell of Ferelden. Compared to her uncle’s hovel and the cramped streets of the city it was a very welcome, very pleasant change.

Varric did not concur. He shifted restlessly next to her, burrowing his face into his duster, which he’d balled up into a makeshift pillow. As the insects’ chatter grew suddenly loud, joined by perhaps another thousand of their brethren, he jolted. Hawke wanted to laugh very badly, but couldn’t bring herself to add to his misery. The chatter fell to a soft hum once again and Varric exhaled in exhaustion.

Hawke scooted closer to him until they were only inches apart.

“Hey.”

He didn’t respond, though he did turn his head toward her a fraction.

“Can’t sleep?”

“What do you think?” he bit out. Hawke stifled another laugh. “There are bugs making that ungodly sound. There’s sand _everywhere_.”

“Did you try counting nugs?”

Varric lifted himself onto his elbows to glare at her.

“Is that a ‘no?’ ”

Varric huffed and rolled away from her onto his side. She heard him mumble something that sounded suspiciously like ‘ _Fereldans_.’

Hawke lifted her eyes to the sky in a long, slow roll. Another rise in the chattering made Varric flinch and Hawke chose to be sympathetic instead of entertained. She put a hand on his shoulder, making him jump again.

“Sorry, just me,” she said. “No creepy-crawlies.”

She could almost hear him roll his eyes, but he settled back onto his side. He didn’t stop her when she hesitantly rubbed circles between his shoulder blades and down his back. Her mind drifted back to the night and the first bit of peace she’d found here in the Free Marches. Bethany would have enjoyed this. Hawke made a mental note to bring her the next time they took a few days out of the city.

A deep hum beside her made her pause. Varric’s breathing had deepened and slowed—he had finally fallen asleep. She blew air through her nose in as much of a laugh as she dared, lest she wake him. She rubbed his back until her watch ended, but he didn’t stir again.

When her watch was finally done and she had awoken Anders, she settled onto her side and drifted off while staring at Varric’s back for any sign that he’d grown restless once more.

In the morning as the others stirred, Hawke opened her eyes to find a vaguely disgruntled Varric staring down at her.

“If you say, ‘ _Good morning, Varric_ ,’ I’ll scream,” he remarked.

She grinned and turned her head away as she stretched, arching her back and tensing muscles that hadn’t moved in several hours. With a groan, she sat up and brushed sand out of her hair. Varric watched her.

“Sleep all right?” she asked.

He continued to stare with an unreadable expression. Hawke was too tired to feel awkward about it.

“I fell asleep, which I wasn’t expecting to do.”

“See? Nature isn’t that bad.”

He glared, but Hawke just grinned back at him. With a dismissive grunt he stood up and, to her surprise, offered a hand up. She took it and he yanked her to her feet.

“You’re buying me coffee as soon as we get back,” Varric said.

“But I’m the reason you fell asleep!” she protested in jest.

“You’re also the reason I had to sleep outside in the first place.”

“Hate to break it to you, Varric, but you’ll have to get used to it.” He paused while shrugging into his coat, eyes wide. “This isn’t the last time we’ll be camping out.”

Varric closed his eyes and turned on his heel toward the city. “Coffee _and_ a pint.”

 

 

11.

“Get Bianca ready, Varric,” Hawke announced as she threw his door open.

It was earlier than the time she typically marched in and Varric still had his glasses on as he went about arranging the day’s deals. He swiped them off his face as quickly as he could, but Hawke had seen.

“You wear glasses?”

“No.”

She smirked. “Yes, you do.”

He narrowed his eyes in annoyance. “So why ask?”

“Wanted to see if you were self-conscious about it. Clearly you are.”

“Not a word to the others. Especially Isabela.”

“Your secret is safe with me, serah,” she said with a grin that instilled him with little confidence.

Varric pinched the bridge of his nose. “Where are we going?”

“Sundermount.”

Varric groaned. “What could possibly be worth hiking all the way out there?”

“I have a deal with a witch to complete.”

He paused. She’d told him about Flemeth and his skepticism of the situation was overshadowed by his intense curiosity. Whether or not Hawke had hallucinated the whole thing, for one.

“Just think, Varric. You’d be meeting the same woman who saved the Hero of Ferelden’s life. All you need to do is accompany me on a measly little hike in the woods.”

“ ‘Measly?’ ” He scoffed. “That’s just what I need today. A hike through nature while the Merchants Guild breathes down my neck.”

“Are you really going to pass on the chance to meet Flemeth?”

“That depends. Is this going to take just the day, or will we be camping again?”

“Just the day. Promise.”

“Oh, all right. But I’m going to complain.”

 

//

 

Up the mountain they went, Varric grumbling all the while. Hawke quickly realized that a flustered Varric entertained her like few other things. Sundermount was more of a climb than Hawke had expected, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing she regretted it.

Keeper Marethari’s insistence on taking her First with them after completing Flemeth’s task concerned her. Although Hawke knew little about the Dalish, she knew enough to infer that a First had to be involved in something pretty serious if the clan wanted her taken away. The Dalish clans were few these days and ensuring proper leadership after a Keeper’s death was important. What had the woman done?

Upon meeting her further up the path, Hawke thought she must have just been too adorable to stand. Merrill’s nervousness was certainly understandable, but appeared to be venturing into the realm of distress so Hawke didn’t press the exile issue.

 “Hawke.”

“Yes, Aveline?” Maybe a half hour had passed since they’d begun the trek. Merrill was a ways ahead, unfazed by the steadily steepening slope while the rest trailed behind.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I have not,” Hawke lied. “I’ve seen you every day this week.”

“Yes, but you scurry off once business is done. I need to talk to you.”

“We’re talking now.”

“You know what I mean. We need to talk privately, and not just about what you think.”

Hawke sighed. She’d avoided it long enough. “All right. I’ll stop by the barracks later this week, so long as Flemeth doesn’t turn us all into toads for taking over a year to deliver this stupid amulet.”

“Don’t even joke about that!” Bethany said in horror.

“She can’t hear us.”

“You don’t know that,” Aveline said. “That amulet looks magical to me.”

“Even if she _can_ hear us—which I’m sure she can’t—I think she’d find it funny. We’ll be fine.”

“It’s your funeral.”

 

//

 

After detouring through a cavern full of spiders, they found the second path up to the alter blocked by barrier. Judging by Merrill’s lack of surprise, it was put there on purpose. When she opened the way by slicing open her wrist, that purpose seemed much more nefarious. They followed mutely after Merrill as she passed under the arch.

“Hawke,” Varric said under his breath.

He didn’t actually have anything to say, but her name had been the only thought he was capable of.

“Varric?”

She glanced down at him. From her furrowed brows and tight mouth, she appeared to be on the same page. He had nothing else to offer after a long moment of searching for something—a joke, a quip, _anything_ —to say. After what he imagined to be a comical rearranging of his face, he settled for mild amusement and shrugged.

_This is turning into a pattern_ , he thought.

Hawke watched his face, then let out a little laugh and said, “Yeah.”

He slowed his pace to stare after her. Varric most certainly did _not_ believe in mind-reading. He did, however, feel a throb of understanding between them. She spared him another glance before continuing after the adorable blood mage they’d been saddled with.

The altar wasn’t much further down. They wound their way through the derelict graves of an ancient cemetery, tried to ignore the sudden fog that had crept in, and stood before a simple stone altar. Hawke took a deep breath and placed the amulet on the surface.

Merrill recited something in Elven and the amulet flashed. Varric internally noted the movements of her hands and the way her voice trembled at the end. He committed the backdrop of the mountains to memory, along with the thin fog that made everything seem ethereal. The amulet glowed gold and a figure unfurled from within. It stretched, standing to its full height and stepped down on the ground before them. An old woman, but not elderly, raised her chin as she stared down at them. Dressed like a villain straight out of a novel with curved horns parting her hair, Varric felt a chill tear down his spine. Sharp, yellow eyes opened slowly, as if from a deep sleep, and the writer in his head promptly shut up. Merrill bowed low and he felt a strong urge to prostrate himself as well.

Varric tugged on Hawke’s sleeve until she bent her head down closer to him, but her eyes never left the woman.

“That’s Flemeth?” he whispered.

“That’s Flemeth.”

He broke out in a cold sweat. Flemeth turned her eyes to him and his knees nearly buckled. Another chill ran down his spine and the hair stood up on the back of his neck. She surveyed the five of them before her gaze came to rest on Hawke.

“So nice to see a deal upheld,” she cooed.

“It wouldn’t have been if the merchants in Lowtown had bought it off me,” Hawke remarked. “Turns out no one wants cursed amulets with witches inside.”

Varric nearly hit her.

Flemeth laughed, deep and rich and genuine.

“How refreshing to have someone joke instead of cower.”

Hawke grinned and glanced down at Varric, giving him a quick wink.

“Come here, child,” Flemeth said.

Hawke stepped forward without hesitation, seemingly without fear.

Varric grabbed her with the intention of tugging her back. Hawke looked down at him with a reassuring grin and took another step. Varric couldn’t let go and was pulled along with her. Flemeth eyed him again.

“I’ll reward you with some advice: the world is on the brink of great change. When you stand on the precipice of the abyss, do not hesitate to leap. I cannot turn you into a dragon—”

Hawke let out a theatrical sigh.

“—but I can offer you that.”

“You’re really sure about the dragon bit? I feel like you’re holding out on me.”

Varric squeezed her arm. Hard.

Flemeth chuckled.

“Thank you for upholding your part of the deal. It is so rare to find people who hold to their word, even for the sake of a stupid amulet.”

Hawke gulped, paling noticeably. Flemeth threw her head back and laughed. Her form shifted rapidly as she turned to the edge of the cliff. It expanded and stretched until a gargantuan purple dragon stood in her place and beat its wings. The ground shook, toppling a headstone behind them. She lifted off and soared away.

“I feel like she just wanted to rub it in,” Hawke remarked. She turned to Varric. “All right, there?”

He still clung to her arm.

“Yeah,” he said, letting go and stretching out the tension in his fingers. “No problem.”

Silence filled the space between them. Varric had learned much of Hawke’s boundaries in the past several weeks, but he still talked endlessly. Words were hard to find now. He’d convinced himself that Hawke, who was not the best illustration of sanity, had made it up. Maybe she’d lost too much blood and thought the Witch of the Wilds swooped down and rescued her remaining family from the darkspawn. Maybe she’d been pulling his leg. Either way, he had been sure it wasn’t true.

Not anymore. Not ever. Whatever Hawke told him, he’d believe.

(This was, of course, without the knowledge of all the things Hawke will come to tell him. He’ll struggle to believe a great deal of what she says, especially when what she says is honest. But this is still several years away.)

“You know, Hawke,” he said, frustrated with his speechlessness and forcing himself to break it. “You’re pretty lucky.”

“Lucky?” she scoffed. “We Hawkes are many things, but _lucky_ is not one of them.”

“You were surrounded by a horde of darkspawn and rescued by Flemeth. That’s not luck?”

“I’d argue not. I owed Flemeth a very interesting favor and she told me to leap into the abyss when it appears. That’s not luck. That’s terrifying.”

“But you’re alive. _That’s_ luck.”

“And stuck in Kirkwall, which is doing its best to starve me out. Not luck.”

This wasn’t where he thought the conversation would go.

“You met me?”

Hawke stopped and stared at him. He worried he’d see insult on her face, but he didn’t. He saw consideration.

“You’re right,” he conceded, unable to stand her silence another moment. “Maybe it’s something other than luck.”

Her lips curled. “Like what?”

“Destiny?”

Hawke rolled her eyes. “Well, the storyteller’s back. You were so quiet I was worried, but you must be fine if you can come up with that bullshit.”

Varric laughed. He didn’t want to jump the trigger, but this partnership felt right. Like two pieces of a puzzle were slowly coming together, the rough edges gradually smoothing over until they finally interlocked. Fate and destiny were wonderful plot devices that, normally, his fans ate up—not Varric. But even he had to acknowledge the feeling that other forces were at work in the world. Forces like old women who lived in amulets and turned into dragons. Or like refugees that appeared suddenly and inserted themselves into every corner of his life.

It wasn’t a bad thing.


	2. Chapter 2

1.

“It’s about time, Hawke,” Aveline said. Arms crossed and eyes narrowed, she made for an intimidating figure. “We need to talk.”

“Do we have to speak in rhymes? I’m afraid I’m not much of a poet.”

Varric snickered. Aveline’s nostrils flared and Hawke fought hard to keep her grin steady. She had avoided talking to Aveline for well over a week (twelve days, to be exact), even after promising to see her when they picked up Merrill. Admittedly, it wasn’t the most mature way to handle things, but Hawke didn’t want to think about Anders’s extra passenger any more than she had to. Plus, she’d found that Anders wasn’t the only bundle of instability tagging along for the foreseeable future. It had turned into a whole crew of crazy. In a rare stroke of luck, Aveline still had no idea that the bodies in the Chantry were the fault of Hawke and Isabela.

“Alone.” She looked directly at Varric without so much as a pretense of subtlety.

He held up his hands placatingly. “I’ll just wait outside, then.” He turned on his heel, tossed Hawke a wink that Aveline couldn’t see, and disappeared up the stairs.

“All right,” Hawke said. “I know it wasn’t what you signed up for, but I spoke with him and—”

“He’s a criminal.”

Hawke chuckled and furrowed her brow, bemused. “I don’t think running from the Wardens makes him a _criminal_ per se, but—”

“Not Anders, though he’s another mess. I’m talking about Varric.”

Hawke blinked.

“Bartrand isn’t much better, but at least his business dealings are more open because of his involvement in the Merchants Guild. Varric on the other hand…”

“He’s just a businessman. I know the two can be easily confused, but—”

“He’s. A. Criminal. Hawke, don’t trust him.” Aveline’s tone had lost the hard edge, taking on that of a concerned friend. That was harder for Hawke to mock.

“So am I, if we’re throwing the word around. You trust me. Sort of.”

“You know what I’m talking about. His name shows up in more reports than coincidence can allow for. He’s hovering around every shady business in Lowtown.”

“Then why isn’t he in jail?”

“Because he knows people.”

“I know people. I know _you_. You’ve looked the other way quite a few times.”

“Do you want me to lock you up?”

Hawke shook her head a little too enthusiastically.

“He’s just…too smooth,” Aveline said helplessly.

“That’s what I said.”

“And yet there you are gallivanting around with him.”

“Aveline, I appreciate your concern, I do, but it’s fine. And if it ends up not being fine, I’ll kill him.”

She _really_ hoped she wouldn’t have to kill him. It had been over a month and they were adjusting very well to each other. Hawke had begun to hope they didn’t stop at business partners. It had been a while since she’d met someone she got along with so well, and the Maker knew she could use a friend who didn’t spy on her constantly. Her wariness aside, she found it difficult not to trust him.

Aveline rolled her eyes.

“And you can help?”

“You’re impossible,” Aveline huffed. “I’ll be keeping an eye on him. If he does _anything_ suspicious with this expedition, I’ll have him cuffed and put on trial so fast—”

“All right! All right!” Hawke groaned. “Can I go now, _Mother_?”

Aveline waved her away impatiently.

Hawke left the barracks, looking around the Keep in search of Varric until someone cleared their throat behind her. Varric leaned against the wall beside the barracks’ staircase.

“Everything all right?” He joined her toward the exit.

“Just peachy.”

“Oh? Nothing about your good-for-nothing business partner?”

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “Eavesdropping, Varric?”

“I don’t need to eavesdrop to have noticed the looks she gives me. But yes.”

“You’ll grow on her.”

He cackled. “I’m not so sure about that.”

“Well, she’ll have to stuff it. Her suggestion for getting my family out of the slums was to join the guard with her. She’s the older sibling I never wanted,” she said, not without fondness.

“No one wants older siblings, just ask us younger ones.” Varric chuckled, letting Hawke swat his shoulder in mock insult. “Guard duty won’t get you out of the slums. Not risky enough, which is why you have me.”

The smile he tossed her dripped with mischief.

“Who said Hawkes weren’t lucky?”

“You, actually.”

She laughed the loud, obnoxious bark of a laugh her mother always grimaced at, but Varric’s grin widened in response.

“Well, what do I know?”

 

2.

He hadn’t meant to make Hawke uncomfortable, really. When he’d gestured for her to lean down, she’d done so immediately. Eyes suspicious, but spine obedient. He brought his hands up to work on untangling the twig caught in her rat’s nest of a head. It was the least he could do. Her tumble into the brush had occurred because she’d pushed _him_ out of the way of the charging Tal-Vashoth. He forgot that she could still be a little skittish at times. She’d warmed up to him, sure, but sometimes she looked as if she were waiting for the other boot to drop—or a knife in the back. Paranoia like that didn’t come out of nowhere. It showed him just how little he actually knew about her, but she’d tolerated his invasiveness thus far. Perhaps he couldn’t inquire about what had made her so skittish, but at least he didn’t have to walk on eggshells around her anymore.

Her eyes widened when his fingers began gently freeing the twig. She’d only just realized their proximity and anxiously tried to look casual. Unable to look at him, her eyes flitted everywhere. Her hands tapped at her thighs until she remembered she had pockets to stuff them in.

Varric couldn’t help but try to ease the awkwardness the only way he knew how.

“Gray hair at twenty-five, Hawke? That doesn’t bode well for the future,” he tutted.

She covered his face with a hand and pushed it away with half-hearted outrage. In doing so, Varric inadvertently pulled on the twig in his grasp. She let out an undignified yelp and fell to her knees, leaning toward him in an unconscious effort to lessen the pain. Varric let go, the twig unfortunately still firmly knotted in her hair.

“Make fun of my gray hair all you want, Varric,” she said, regaining her composure. “For every one I have, _you’ve_ got ten.”

Varric blinked. “It makes me look distinguished,” he said, a little defensively.

“That’s just what women say when they don’t want to sleep with a guy who looks old enough to be their father.”

“Oh, ho!”

“ _Children_ ,” Anders groaned.

For once, he and Fenris looked to be in agreement.

Varric raised a brow at Hawke, who met it with a disgustingly innocent grin.

“Touché,” he said, “but don’t forget you still have a bush caught in your hair.”

She laughed and swatted his shoulder.

Later, she didn’t feel like laughing as Isabela huffed in anger, impatiently trying to remove the foliage. They didn’t have to cut any hair off, but Hawke regretted brushing aside Varric’s earlier, gentler attempts.

 

 

3.

“So where is this person?” Hawke asked.

“Not sure,” Varric said, eyes darting from shadow to shadow. “The rumor just said that someone from the Chantry was offering money for help. Nothing more.”

“I’m not sure I want to be involved with the Chantry, even if it is paying well.”

“Coin’s coin, Hawke. We’ve got to get the expedition on its feet and if that means Chantry money, I’m in.”

Hawke frowned. Their hunt for coin was throwing them into Kirkwall’s politics, slowly but surely. Over three months had passed since their partnership began. They sold what they could find, no matter how little the value, helped the people of Kirkwall who had coin to spare, and pursued rumor after rumor for more. Most were minor jobs, but many had involved prominent people in the city. People who had likely taken note of the Fereldan butting her nose into everyone’s business. She wanted to talk to Varric about it, but she also wanted enough money to eat so she kept quiet. They _did_ need the coin. Bartrand had grown frantic in his efforts to get the expedition ready to leave, which had worn down Varric’s usually jovial demeanor. Neither of them were in an appropriate mood for work.

They rounded a corner and Varric stepped into Hawke’s personal space. She bristled at the proximity, too anxious with their prospective employer, but he appeared to have expected it. His familiarity added to her annoyance tonight. If he understood her reluctance to get involved in this, why did he continue to push? As soon as she turned a hard look at him, he deliberately nodded to the side. A woman in the robes of a Sister was following a heavily armed thug down an alley. Hawke sighed and nudged Varric’s hip to let him know she’d seen.

“Can you help someone so intent on being stupid?” she said.

“If they pay well.”

Hawke heaved another sigh and ran after the woman with her weapons drawn. The others followed suit.

The thugs were of the typical variety: strong, but slow. If Hawke was a bit more brutal than usual, no one made any note. The Sister huddled to the side, but appeared relatively unsurprised by the circumstance.

“Over your head, Sister?” Hawke remarked, wiping a dagger on one of the corpses.

“Yes, I’m afraid,” she said. “My name is Sister Petrice. I find myself rather out of my element, but I had little choice. I have a charge who needs escorting out of the city. I came seeking the help of someone with skill, as well as integrity. Perhaps a woman willing to help a stranger?”

Hawke’s stomach churned. The adrenaline from the fight had faded, but sourness remained.

Petrice handed over a slip of paper. “Come to this location if you are willing to help. Varnell?”

A heavily armored man—a Templar—appeared out of a dark corner and escorted Petrice away. Bethany stepped behind Hawke at the sight of the insignia.

“Not so helpless after all,” Fenris said.

Hawke watched her retreating form warily. The location was deep in the slums—not exactly the kind of place a Sister “in over her head” would set up base.

“Are we going?” Bethany asked.

“Might as well hear her out,” Varric said.

Hawke’s frown deepened, but she headed off in the direction of the slums. It didn’t take very long to find. She knocked and the door cracked open immediately, revealing the cold eyes of the Templar.

“Ser Varnell, let them in,” Sister Petrice’s voice came from within.

Without a word, Varnell put his sword down, but not away.

“Thank you for coming. This is a delicate matter and I need someone of little notoriety to handle it, lest it be linked back to me.”

“And why would you need to keep it from being linked to you?” Hawke asked.

Petrice paused, then beckoned to a side room. “This is my burden of charity.”

A towering, chained Qunari entered. Its horns had been sawed off and its lips were sewn together. Hawke kept her jaw from dropping, but only just barely.

“A Saarebas?” Fenris whispered.

Bethany shuddered and covered her mouth with a hand.

“I call him Ketojan,” Petrice continued. “I would see him escorted out of the city, away from his brutal kin. The leaders in this city would return him to his people, but I would see him freed. My order will soon see the Qunari presence for what it is—a challenge to our faith—but for now I must act on my own.”

“Is that what he wants?” Hawke asked.

“It is what I would want, so I assume it is his wish, as well.”

“You _assume_ ,” Varric remarked.

“Do you accept this task or not?”

Hawke sighed and weighed the options. She felt Varnell staring her down from the corner he lurked in and got the feeling that refusing would not end in their favor.

“What’s the pay?”

“Seven sovereigns, upon completion.”

That was much better coin for an escort than they’d made taking out the night gangs, and each gang had taken a _week_ to root out.

“I’ll get him out of the city.”

“Maybe I’m out of line for saying this, but _not_ starting a war with the giants camped in the city seems like a wise move,” Varric said. “I can’t imagine the Arishok taking this well, if news gets out.”

Hawke shot him a look.

“It will be dangerous, but that’s why I hired you,” Petrice said. “This tunnel leads through the Undercity. Good luck.”

Hawke turned to the others and gestured toward the hatch.

“Let’s get this over with.”

They carefully descended down the ladder. Hawke made note that it looked well-used. Ketojan followed them silently, standing behind as they situated themselves. Hawke got as far as opening her mouth before Varric spoke first.

“This was a mistake.”

He stood with his arms crossed, somehow looking down at her despite their height difference. She straightened her back from its usual slouch.

“No shit,” Hawke said.

“So why did you agree to it? We could have walked away.”

“You gave me the tip! What happened to ‘coin is coin?’ ”

“That went out the window when we walked into a set-up.”

“Did you see that Templar? She wasn't about to let us go on our merry way after hearing her plans. I don’t appreciate you finding rumors, not looking into them, and then huffing your disapproval the whole time.”

“I didn’t think I’d have to voice it when it’s such an obviously bad decision.”

“Then maybe you should do more than tag along while I make all the decisions.”

Blood pounded in her ears. She needed to hit something and Varric was beginning to look like a good target.

He turned away dismissively, but the twitch of his hand gave away his anger. It was the same twitch she’d seen when he and Bartrand argued over her becoming a partner.

“This is getting us nowhere.”

Hawke found herself wanting to anger him further. To jab at his dismissiveness until he was shouting back at her. She stepped forward until she was just a foot away, towering over him. “ _You’re_ getting us nowhere.”

“Niamh, please—” Bethany said.

“Enough!” Fenris said.

They stood, glaring at each other and gritting their teeth. Hawke watched the thin line of Varric’s lips, the flare of his nostrils as his chest heaved. She took a deep breath and turned away—it wasn’t worth it.

“Come on.”

She led them through the sewers. It was a path she hadn’t come across yet, reminding her how extensive the Undercity was; she could live in Kirkwall her whole life and never explore it all. She would have to trust that the tunnel led out where Sister Petrice promised, and hope that her anger subsided.

When they reached the exit, Hawke let out a breath of mild relief. Then she saw the Qunari bodies nearby and an arriving unit of more.

“Shit,” she whispered.

Her stomach sunk and soured with adrenaline as the conversation turned south. Ketojan kneeled to show his loyalty to the Qun and spears were launched at them. Every slash of her daggers was accompanied by an increasing hatred for the Sister. For Kirkwall. For herself. (And just a little for Varric.)

Fenris cut the Qunari down two at a time with his greatsword. Varric hailed bolts from above, ending the rain of spears. Ice stopped the Qunari from charging, allowing Hawke to sweep through and finish off the last few.

And Ketojan immolated himself. Hawke watched him burn until the flames went out. She felt she owed it to him. The others quickly realized that they wouldn’t be leaving for a while and found places to rest. Hawke very nearly left herself, overwhelmed by frustration, and exhaustion, and resignation. She kept it together.

After maybe a half hour she felt a tentative hand on her hip. Her anger flared again, but fizzled as quickly as it came. She wasn’t happy with the situation, and less so with Varric, but his comfort was welcome nonetheless. As the sun began to crest the horizon, they wordlessly made their way back to the tunnel. They made a wrong turn somewhere and came out in a different part of the Undercity, forcing them to weave through the sewers and slums once more.

Hawke quietly picked the lock to Petrice’s hideout and peeked through the cracked door. Petrice and Varnell were frantically gathering their things. After sparing Varric a hard look, Hawke kicked the door open.

“Packing up already, Sister?” she asked.

Petrice spun, trying not to look panicked and failing.

“Hawke! It was Hawke, right? Did you escort him out of the city without incident?”

“I rather think the ‘incident’ was your doing,” Varric said.

Hawke swallowed the fresh surge of fury.

“I don’t like your implication,” Petrice said.

“I don’t like being set up to die for your cause,” Hawke said.

Petrice’s countenance changed slightly. She grew colder, less naïve.

“Perhaps someone would have found your death useful. An innocent slaughtered by the Qunari for attempting to free one of their enslaved mages? It could have ended the effort being wasted on appeasement.”

“Cut the bullshit, Petrice. Pretend all you want that it wasn’t your goal, but you sent us to die. I should kill you right now.”

Varnell drew his sword. “Watch it, Fereldan.”

Hawke stared him down, but didn’t reach for her own weapons. She knew she was a quicker draw. Someone gripped her wrist—hard. She’d grown too familiar with that touch to think it anyone but Varric.

“Think about what you’re doing,” he whispered.

Hawke ripped her arm out of his grasp.

Petrice threw down a coin pouch. A few sovereigns tinkled out across the floor from within.

“Take your coin,” Petrice spat. “Disappear back into the slums. I’ll not make the mistake of looking outside the faithful again.”

She walked resolutely past Hawke, who now couldn’t be sure that she’d be able to take out both the Sister and Templar before one escaped. Varnell followed behind and they walked out. The door shut, and Hawke turned sharply to Varric.

“Do you understand what you’ve done?” she hissed.

“You were about to murder a Sister,” he said. “Even I know that’s wrong.”

“What’s _wrong_ is you putting her status as a Sister above her active attempts to create tension between the city and the Qunari.”

Varric rolled his eyes. “And murder is better?”

The edges of her vision flashed red. “She’s trying to start an Exalted March! I’m just trying to get out of the slums without being set up to die!”

“Arguing about this is pointless,” Varric said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

He made to turn away and Hawke grabbed the collar of his coat, pulling him in close.

“We just let a Templar go who knows that Bethany is a mage.”

Varric’s eyes widened as fear seeped into them and he paled. Hawke felt pride that she could pick up the subtlety of his expression—and that she was the cause.

“Can you guarantee nothing will come of that?”

“I’ll keep my ear to the ground. Tell my contacts to—”

“That’s not what I asked. _Can you guarantee it_?”

Varric dropped his eyes.

“When this bites us in the ass down the line—which it will—we’ll know who to blame,” she bit out and released him with a hard shove.

“Niamh,” Bethany said softly. She and Fenris had watched motionless until this point.

Hawke continued to stare Varric down. “This is not how you earn my trust.”

She gave Bethany a nod and walked out the door. Outside, Hawke cut a quick path toward their apartment.

“I don’t think you had to be that hard on him.”

“He doesn’t realize what’s at stake for us.”

“Maybe not, but can you blame him?” She tugged on Hawke’s arm, bringing them both to a stop in the alley. “He barely understands magic, period. How can you expect him to know everything we’ve gone through because of it?”

Hawke forced herself to take a breath. Blood still pounded in her ears, but she softened her expression for Bethany.

“I told him,” Hawke said. “I _told_ him that you and Mother were most important. He knew that the Templars were my biggest concern.”

“Knowing and understanding are two different things.”

Hawke scoffed and paced in frustration.

“Niamh—look at me.”

She stopped and turned, but ground the ball of her foot in the dirt in agitation.

“You’re _friends_. Take a few days, cool off, and then _talk_ to him.”

Hawke’s breath caught. They _were_ friends, weren’t they? She’d never tolerated someone so well before, so he must be _her_ friend at the very least. Did he consider her _his_ friend?

Without a response, Hawke began walking in the direction of their home again. Bethany followed after her right away, thankfully preserving Hawke’s pseudo-dismissive demeanor.

“I don’t even want to look at him.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Bethany said, trailing off into a giggle. “I think you can look at him just fine.”

Hawke grumbled. “Whose side are you on?”

She giggled louder. They turned the last corner and their building came into view.

“I won’t see him until I’m sure the Sister isn’t taking revenge.”

“He’s the one who would know that first and you _know_ it.”

 

 

4.

Hawke did as her sister said: she let herself cool off and sought out Varric a few days later. Bethany was home, where she would remain as often as possible until the expedition. The situation with the Sister and Varric’s carelessness still filled her with anger, but she found herself stuck on the revelation that she and Varric were friends.

Hawke had never had friends. Acquaintances, sure, but never people she relied on. Trusted. And, despite the Petrice debacle, she _did_ trust Varric. She had from nearly the moment they’d met, no matter how hard she’d tried to remain wary. He’d proven more than once that he wanted to help her and her family. He’d proven that he _cared_ what happened to them. His intentions were good, even if his methods weren’t the most sound. Between the Viscount’s son and the Qunari, the Prince-turned Chantry brother-turned vengeance-monger, and now this new business with the Qunari and the Chantry, they were being pulled deeper into the city’s most serious political matters.

These matters had begun leaving their marks on her. Hawke stood in front of the mirror in Varric’s suite, a luxury her family didn’t have currently, looking at the gray hairs that had multiplied rapidly in the last year and a half.

“So, Hawke,” Varric began hesitantly. It was satisfying to hear him speak so tentatively around her again.

“Mm?”

“What are you going to do with the money after the expedition?”

By all appearances, Varric had the barest minimum of her attention. She was far more interested in confronting her mortality—or her age, at the very least—and making Varric think she _wasn’t_ interested in what he had to say.

“Hawke, you’re almost thirty. You have gray hair. Get over it.”

“I didn’t have nearly as many until I met you.”

“Likewise,” Varric mumbled.

“What was the question?” Hawke turned away from the mirror with a huff and moved to the table.

She’d meant to put a seat between them, but forgot and realized only after she’d pulled out her usual one. Too late to change her movement without making it awkward, she sat leaning away from him and picked at her nails.

“The expedition money. What are you doing with it?”

“I thought that was fairly obvious. First thing I’m doing is paying off all those ridiculous fees for my mother’s old estate. Then I presume I’ll be paying for her to refurbish it. _Then_ I’m going to find the shadiest Templar in the city and bribe him to keep the rest of the Order away from Bethany.”

“I meant you, personally. Vacation in Antiva? An investment?”

Hawke stilled from her usual fidgeting. “You know, I hadn’t given it much thought.”

“You? Not thinking about yourself? How odd.”

Hawke made a rude gesture and reached for Varric’s mug of ale. She took a sip, her first of the day, and grimaced automatically. It always took a few sips to readjust to the _uniqueness_ of the Hanged Man’s ale.

It annoyed her that it was so easy to fall back into banter with Varric after having spent so many days angry with him. She had to keep reminding herself that she was unhappy with him, but she’d cooled considerably.

“Actually, I’m going to find a tavern with better ale. Better everything, really.”

Varric put a hand over his heart. “You’d leave your poor friend’s side for something as trivial as good ale? Serah, you wound me.”

_Your friend’s side._ She felt warmth seep through her chest. She had already decided to forgive Varric, but that phrase solidified it.

Hawke took another sip from his mug. “I could buy better company, too.”

“I can’t believe my ears.”

“I can’t believe my poor tongue is still capable of taste after this swill.”

“If it’s that offensive, stop mooching mine.”

Varric swiped his mug back and Hawke laughed.

“I really don’t know what I want to do with the money. I’ve never been interested in business. I hate responsibility, so that’s a no to politics.”

“Have you met the Viscount? The Grand Cleric?” Varric scoffed. “Responsibility has nothing to do with it.”

“And I’ve had my share of travel after fleeing Ferelden. I’ll probably keep doing what I’m doing now.”

“Drinking and running around the city?”

“Yes, just a little less desperately looking for garbage to sell.”

Varric cackled. “You couldn’t do that if you tried.”

Hawke smiled and reached over to swat his shoulder. It was so much easier to _not_ be mad at him.

 

 

5.

The wound to Varric’s thigh wasn’t severe by any means, but it was deep enough to warrant attention, especially without Anders or Bethany around to look at it.

Hawke watched him look around in frustration, Bianca cradled carefully in his arms. The Wounded Coast didn’t offer many stable, sand-free surfaces to rest such an intricate weapon and Varric’s distress was evident. His eyes settled on her and his mouth pursed to the side in thought. After an uncomfortable minute passed, he held Bianca out with a stern expression.

“Don’t move,” he said.

Hawke barely breathed, so of course she joked to cover the embarrassed honor she felt.

“You know, she’s heavier than I thought she’d be.”

Fenris cleared his throat and meandered several paces away. Merrill giggled from behind her hands and returned to weaving a bracelet out of the long tufts of grass that grew along the coast.

Varric feigned shock. “Did you just call Bianca _fat_?”

“Not fat,” she clarified with a smirk. “Big boned, maybe?”

Varric scoffed and continued tending to his leg.

Hawke readjusted her grip and took advantage of the chance to admire the intricate carvings. It certainly was a beautiful weapon—and definitely heavy. She glanced at Varric, eyeing his arms curiously. From how he hefted it around with ease, he had to be built. The leather duster hid them; loose enough not to be a hindrance, but snug enough to cut a svelte figure, as Varric’s ego demanded.

Varric grumbled and stood up. He turned back to Hawke, whose eyes were still glued to his arms.

“Everything all right, Hawke?”

His eyes narrowed a tick. Even a month ago she would have missed it, but not now. What she missed was the meaning. He’d caught her staring, so how did he feel about that? How did _she_ feel about that?

That was too many feelings about things.

Hawke delivered Bianca into Varric’s loving, potentially massive arms and idly took a few steps away as Varric looked it over. He made no comment, though, about either her staring or the weapon. He looked at the three of them and jerked his head back toward Kirkwall.

“Shall we?”

Later that night, after Hawke had gone on her own to report their progress to the vengeful Chantry brother, she returned to the Hanged Man for Wicked Grace. Everyone else had arrived earlier, having forgone accompanying her for the promise of drinks. Varric sat in his usual seat at the head of the table, with Hawke’s empty beside his. He’d changed into a tunic as fine as his usual one, only without sleeves. Nothing weird about that. They’d had a long day on the Wounded Coast. Who wouldn’t want to change?

Hawke’s gut told her an entirely different reason for the change, but she couldn’t humor the thought. And even if she could, she didn’t want to think about it. Sure, his arms were on display, but it wasn’t attention-seeking like the dockworkers, who shed their shirts at every opportunity (or passing woman). Varric had opted for a cooler tunic. Nothing suspect whatsoever about that.

She forced herself to walk over to her seat casually, but her eyes returned to his arms often. They were more muscular than she’d imagined for a man who spent most of his time doing paperwork. Between that, the chest hair, the piercings, the roguish demeanor—he made for a very handsome figure. It wasn’t the first time Hawke had noticed Varric’s attractiveness, but it _was_ the first time she realized she was attracted _to him_. On some level she’d always known. Now she simply acknowledged that, were they not business partners, she’d probably try to sleep with him.

Varric watched her over his cards. She especially didn’t know how to feel about that, but she did whatever damage control she could with her face and turned her attention to her own cards. Unable to help herself for long, she waited for a semi-valid reason to tug on his arm for attention. Her empty mug provided the excuse. Hawke leaned in closer, watched as Varric leaned toward her automatically, anticipating her whisper, and placed a hand on his upper arm.

Oh, Varric was _very_ built. She nearly forgot her cover as her fingers brushed his bicep and lingered.

“Whose turn is it to buy a round, again?”

Varric glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.

“Couldn’t resist?” he said.

His voice was low and deep, and she was suddenly very aware of how close they were. With a coy smirk she shifted, leaning on the arm of her chair and slightly away from him. Her hand returned to her cards.

“Like you don’t know how impressively manly you are.”

“Oh, I know, but usually it’s the chest hair that draws attention.”

“Not that I’m _not_ a fan, but it’s out in the open for everyone to see. I’ve always been more interested in what’s left to the imagination.”

They sat for a moment before her words sunk in and she flushed with embarrassment.

Varric laughed and elbowed her. “Where are those drinks you promised?”

“Right, I think a round is overdue.” She stood suddenly, ruining any pretense of casualness.

“Hawke!” Merrill cried. “You can’t leave before the hand is over. Isabela’s going to cheat!”

“We all cheat, Merrill. I fold!” Hawke called back, weaving around the table toward the bar.

Varric enjoyed a private smile for himself and didn’t bother to hide it when Hawke returned with her hands full of mugs.

“You can wipe that self-satisfied smirk off your face anytime now,” she remarked.

 

 

6.

“Baby dragons,” Hawke said. “Well, that explains a lot.”

“Dragonlings, they’re called,” Merrill said absently.

“That’s your reaction? ‘Oh, just a dragon. No big deal,’ ” Varric said.

“I don’t know if you know this, Varric, but dragons are awesome.”

“So long as they’re just pictures in books, sure. But when they’re infesting the mines you naively agreed to help with? They’re terrifying. They were supposed to be _extinct_ until this sodding Age.”

Hawke scoffed. “They’re babies. What could they possibly do to us?”

Varric grabbed her hand and brought it to the underside of Bianca’s stock. She let him with nothing more than a quirk of her brow. He guided her fingers until they came across an apparent scratch in the wood.

“Was that there before?”

“I don’t think so,” she said slowly.

He grumbled and let go of her hand. Under his breath, he muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a mockery of her voice. “ _What could they possibly do to us_?”

“You know—” she began hotly.

“Are we going to stand here and argue or are we going to kill the rest of them?” Fenris snarled.

Hawke and Varric fell silent and glanced at each other. With a synchronized shrug, they drew their weapons.

Truthfully, the dragonlings were not that bad. So long as they weren’t allowed to swarm, they fell easily enough. Fenris alone swept through half of them, perhaps pent up frustration from Hawke and Varric’s bickering. Hawke did feel some regret, though. Dragons were probably the best creatures, other than dogs. It was a shame to have to kill them all.

As they cleaned off their weapons, a screaming man nearly knocked Hawke over in his frantic sprint for the exit.

“Whoa, calm down,” Hawke said, righting herself.

“T-there’s a—”

“Dragon. Yes, we know.”

“No, n-not like the others.” He gestured with his arms, sweeping them over his head in a vague flying gesture. “I’ve got to get out of here—I’ve got to—”

“Go on, then. Quit your crying.”

He sobbed and scurried away.

“What do you think?” Varric asked.

“I think I need a drink.”

“Think we’ll make it back in time for happy hour?”

Fenris made a disgusted sound.

“If we do,” Hawke said, stifling a chuckle, “I’m buying.”

“You _only_ buy when it’s happy hour.”

“Don’t look a gift drink in the mouth, Varric.”

“That makes no sense.”

She stepped out through the passage the miner had come running through. It was wide enough for them, but too narrow to fit a mining cart through. As she squeezed through and reached the outside once more, she was blinded by the sunlight. They finally adjusted and she uncovered them in time to see a large, dark shape swoop down and land before them. The ground shook, nearly knocking them over. This wasn’t a dragonling—this was an actual dragon. It stood three times her height, wings fully formed, and teeth as long as her forearm.

“Oh, shit,” she breathed.

As they frantically drew their weapons, Varric had the gall to shout, “This is why the Bone Pit is terrible!”

//

Varric watched the exchange with shock. He wanted to tell himself that, surely, Hawke was joking. Hadn’t she just witnessed the Bone Pit herself? Hadn’t she seen the dragon that had nearly thrown Fenris off the cliff and turned the rest of them to ash?

“Hawke,” he said at last. “Wait, let’s discuss this first.”

“Discuss what? You said it yourself that I should consider investment properties.”

“Yeah, _after_ the expedition when you have the money to invest. Consult _me_ , at the very least.”

“About what?”

“What is this?” Hubert interjected. “Are we making a deal or not?”

“We are—”

“We’re _not_ \--”

“Varric—”

“ _Hawke_ —”

Isabela laughed. “You’re like an old married couple. Find me when you’ve decided on the drapes.”

She sauntered away, tugging Fenris along to browse the other stalls.

“Hubert, you have yourself a deal,” Hawke said, holding out her hand.

Varric balked.

“Excellent! Well, partner, let us get our mine up and running again.”

They left Hubert’s stall, following after Fenris and Isabela. Varric’s countenance soured with each step.

“Don’t worry, Varric. There’s no need to be jealous that I’ve got another partnership.”

He scoffed. “I’m not jealous.”

“Why are you brooding, then?”

“I can’t believe you’re asking me that with a straight face. We were just attacked by a nest of dragons, tucked in the crevices of a mine that is constantly infested with something awful, and you decided it was the perfect opportunity to throw money at. Money that _you don’t have_.”

“I think we handled it just fine,” Hawke said. “I feel like I have to help my fellow countrymen and Hubert certainly isn’t going to.”

Varric grumbled. “If I end up being the one managing it, you’re going to have a _very_ unhappy dwarf on your hands.”

“I promise that I will only ask for advice. I’ll take care of the mine on my own.”

Hawke did _not_ manage the mine on her own. Varric did, as he quickly learned that it was near impossible to say no to Hawke.

 

 

7.

Warmth wound up her legs, collecting between them and continuing up to constrict her chest. Her breathing shallowed as it wrapped around her throat. Suddenly, dragging her blade across it seemed like the only release from the heat and tension. The cold steel of the blade met her neck and pressed. The top layer of skin split, blood trickled down her throat—and the fog around her cleared.

“I will not obey you!” Hawke said with great difficulty. Every word was a struggle, but she forced them out through gritted teeth.

Idunna took a stunned step back. “How did you—?”

Hawke’s body shook with desire and shock at what she had nearly done. Without a second thought, she stepped forward and lifted the blade she had nearly killed herself with just moments ago. Idunna backed away, her hands held before her in a feeble attempt to protect herself. Her mouth formed the word ‘ _no_ ,’ but didn’t give it voice. Despite the blade in her hand, Hawke felt cornered and vulnerable. The first step toward Idunna was the hardest, nearly painful in its difficulty, but the feeling was cut short when she sunk the blade in Idunna’s chest and twisted. The woman’s eyes rolled back and she fell to the floor.

Hawke reached out for the bed post to steady herself, breathing far heavier than normal after so little effort. Her knees gave way and she disguised it by sitting on the edge of the bed.

“What was…?” Varric panted beside her. “Bleeding Ancestors, I feel like a fool!”

_Me too_ , she thought.

Isabela and Bethany stood further back looking just as shaken, but not as dazed as Hawke and Varric, who had been closer.

“Good on you, Hawke,” Isabela said, recovering first.

“I can’t believe I was about to watch you—without even lifting a finger!” Bethany whispered in horror.

Isabela put an arm around the girl’s shoulders and walked her out the door.

“There must be something here to go on,” she said over her shoulder.

Isabela checked the hall before stepping out, then she mused about “apostitutes” with a rich laugh. Bethany made a soft sound of exasperation, not without humor. They stepped into the hall and out of earshot.

Hawke stood shakily and sought out the paper-strewn desk. Pins and needles made every step a struggle, but they’d begun to fade.

“Here,” she said. “Looks like they’re operating out of the sewers. Now let’s get out of here.”

She took a steadying breath and turned to Varric. He looked as dazed as she felt, leaning against the wall and staring at nothing.

“Varric.” She still felt winded, her mind trapped in a fog.

He looked up slowly, taking a moment to focus before nodding. He took a step forward and swayed. Hawke grabbed his shoulder with the intent of steadying him, but her hand slid to the center of his back instead. Alarms went off in her head, but they were quieted by the lingering effects of the spell. Echoes of his voice saying her given name rang in her head. Varric’s own hands came up to tug her hips forward and Hawke saw panic in his eyes through the haze, even as his fingers gripped her tighter. In a synchronized motion they gasped and recoiled as if burned. Varric turned to the wall and leaned against it again. Hawke clutched her head, willing it to clear.

“Fucking blood magic,” she said with a humorless chuckle when she could trust her voice.

“Weird shit,” he agreed. “I think I need a cold shower.”

“Or three.”

He gestured for her to exit first, though they both resolutely avoided eye contact. The coolness of the Rose’s main room helped clear her mind and she saw the same on his face. They caught up to Bethany and Isabela at the foot of the stairs and passed on the information.

The timing of Idunna’s spell, so soon after Hawke’s revelation that Varric was indeed handsome and desirable, left her more flustered than she could remember being in recent history. Hawke kept several more feet than usual between Varric and herself. For once, he seemed happy to oblige.

 

 

8.

The slopes of Sundermount made for less-than-desirable walking terrain. Each jarring step made Varric’s teeth rattle. More than once he’d set a foot down on a section of loose rock and slipped, nearly rolling back down the path to an undeniably gruesome end. He’d already skidded to a knee once, bloodying it and tearing his trousers. To say that Varric was annoyed at having to climb the near-vertical Sundermount once more because Hawke forgot to look for Solivitus’s rare ingredients would be a severe understatement. He glanced up at her, briefly rolling his eyes away when he found himself eye level with her backside. Last week’s encounter with Idunna had brought his gaze there more often, to his chagrin. He wondered if it was typical of blood magic to have such lingering effects. The idea that his eyes landed there of his own accord wasn’t worth humoring. He quickened his pace until he’d passed Hawke, keeping his eyes resolutely forward.

Traveling with Hawke was grating on him rapidly.

He was about to open his mouth to complain when an arm suddenly wrapped around his chest. Fingers dug into his collarbone, yanking him back and forcing the air out of his lungs. Bianca dug painfully into his back and, for a split second, he feared losing his balance and tumbling down the mountain. As he regained his footing, sure that he would _not_ fall to his untimely death, he felt a huff of breath on the back of his neck.

“What the—?”

“Sorry,” Hawke said with a breathless chuckle. “Bianca.”

He turned to find Hawke’s face inches from his. Had he ever noticed how thick her eyelashes were before? Judging by the way his heart stuttered as she looked up at him, no, he hadn’t. Her legs were spread wide to catch her balance and he realized she was supporting the crossbow. With his attention diverted by the misery of their trek and his throbbing knee, he hadn’t noticed Bianca’s harness loosening.

Hawke chuckled again, shifting her weight forward onto the bent knee when her back leg slipped a few inches. “That could have been very bad,” she said, nodding toward the bottom of the slope.

There was an intense pain in his chest at the mental image of Bianca at the foot of the mountain in jagged splinters, followed by an equally intense relief that this fate had not befallen her. He was so relieved that he spoke without thinking.

“I could kiss you.”

A comical blend of confusion and curiosity crossed over her face. Her eyes dipped to stare at his lips for an instant, then her whip crack of a smile erupted.

“I suppose you could, but what would Bianca say?”

She took a firm hold of the crossbow, hefting it off his back so he could readjust the harness. He was halfway done when he realized his lack of concern for his beloved crossbow in Hawke’s arms. By the time he was ready to take Bianca back, Hawke’s face had smoothed.

“Thanks,” he said.

She nodded, gave the harness a tug to double-check, and turned to resume their long trek up the mountain.

Varric let her pass before following her up. Aveline and Bethany stood further along, having stopped when they realized the other two were no longer with them. His gaze shifted to Hawke (and her backside, again) and found his thoughts far more pleasant than just minutes before. It wasn’t sexual. Admiring a well-shaped woman—even a human—didn’t have to be accompanied by the desire to bed her. Varric just appreciated the simpler joys in life: a pint of ale, a fire, and an attractive woman. An attractive woman who had risked slipping down a mountain to save his beloved crossbow from the same fate? Even better.

Traveling with Hawke wasn’t _all_ bad.

 

 

 

9.

_SNAP_.

Hawke was having a very bad rogue day. She’d flubbed two traps, one of which had left her with singed ends after a pressure plate depressed a hair too far. A quick spell from Bethany had saved her some serious burns, but only just. Varric had watched in silence, but he was about at his own limits of patience. Hawke’s stubbornness was slowing them down. The locks weren’t beyond her capabilities from what he could tell, but her hands trembled visibly even from where he stood.

_SNAP._

Varric gradually moseyed closer with every broken pick. Hawke was, generally speaking, of defter hand than he. His thick fingers made the finer work by no means impossible, but certainly more difficult than for her. But Hawke’s frustrations were only making her clumsier and soon there would be too much debris in the lock for it to be opened, period.

“Hawke,” he said. Not gently, not firm. Casual.

“What, Varric?” she huffed impatiently. _SNAP_. “Shit!”

“Perhaps you’d like me to try my hand at that?”

“I’ve got it! I just need to—” _SNAP_. “Fuck you!”

His lips quirked at the unintended phrase and he had to stifle a chuckle.

“Hawke, it’s no trouble. You’ve been handling this all day. Your eyes much be strained.”

He laid a hand on her shoulder and, feeling the tension in her shoulders, kneaded the muscles.

“Says the one who wears glasses,” she retorted.

He moved directly behind her, hands on both of her shoulders and lips by her ear.

“I thought we agreed to keep that little detail under wraps.”

He squeezed for good measure, triggering the pressure points and making her recoil. Her spine straightened and she writhed in his grasp, trying to pull away, but he had leverage and held on.

“Why don’t you let me handle it?”

She acquiesced, to his relief. Within moments, the lock sprung open and its contents were bared: a pair of torn trousers, some old boots, and a handful of coppers. The four of them stared at the contents for a long moment in disbelief. Then Hawke wedged her fingers beneath the edge and _heaved_ with a sound that was half-scream, half-snarl. The chest launched into the air and flipped end over end into the waves below. Varric considered a comment about the lost coppers, but thought better of it.

The journey home was a quiet one. Bethany and Fenris had taken the lead, since Hawke was too busy sulking and Varric had gotten stuck beside her. She elbowed him several times, knocking him out of step and then waiting for him to right his footing each time so they could continue.

“You know, Hawke,” he said, “most people get over temper tantrums by your age.”

“Yeah, well, most people don’t waste a dozen lock picks on a chest full of trash.”

Varric relented, knowing defeat when he faced it. Better to let her cool off.

She stopped elbowing him, settling for walking in his space. It was a relief. The last thing he needed was to go ass over head into the choppy waters of the Wounded Coast.

“Didn’t know dwarves were so good with their hands,” she said.

“The Carta makes a living off of it. I’m afraid I can’t claim to be a special dwarf in that regard.”

Varric hadn’t had much opportunity to show off his defter skills, what with Hawke leading them around most of the time. She got to most traps and locks before he could take notice of them, due solely to proximity.

Hawke glanced down at him. “Well, from the look of it, Bianca’s maintenance takes quite a bit of finesse. And that lock was rather complicated to only take you half a minute. I think you’re selling yourself short. I just can’t figure out if it’s because you believe it, or you want _me_ to.”

She nudged him—gently—and walked a bit faster to catch up to the others. Varric, however, nearly stopped. Hawke had just called him out on his bluff. Confidently. She looked over her shoulder at him and jerked her head, beckoning him forward. Varric followed.

 

 

10.

Varric’s hand skimmed her waist, pretending to move her out of the way of a passerby, while actually pointing out the coin changing hands between a hooded woman and a guard behind the market stalls. Hawke stepped closer to Varric, avoiding the person he pretended to direct her away from and using the proximity to duck her head closer to his.

“Coterie,” he said.

“Does Aveline know?”

“I doubt it.”

He elbowed her quickly, letting her know they had to move before they were seen. While they weren’t noteworthy individually, a human woman and a dwarven man together attracted more attention than they needed in Hightown. Varric fretted over being seen by a Guild member constantly. Not for his reputation, he assured her, but because he’d missed the last three Guild meetings. He didn’t need them knowing that it was due to a human, of all things. They’d never leave him alone if they thought he was sharing guild secrets with the humans.

“I can’t tell which guard it is,” Hawke grumbled, pretending to hold up a merchant’s ware while observing the exchange again.

“They’re using some sort of marking—a scarf, a pouch, _something_ —otherwise their contacts wouldn’t be able to tell the difference with those helmets they wear. I haven’t been able to figure it out yet.”

“And the market’s not busy enough to get closer,” Hawke said, finishing his thought out loud.

He nodded and uttered a sound of frustration before tugging on the hem of her shirt. They gave the shifty guard a wide berth on their way to the stairs leading down to Lowtown. The air thickened with ash from the foundries as they descended the long way down, but they were both too familiar with it to choke.

A drunkard stumbled into the poultry stall on one of the landings, upending a cage and releasing the chickens within. A cloud of feathers flew into the air as the stall’s owner chased after them. Hawke and Varric ducked, barely avoiding the fowl around their faces and laughing as they continued heading down the stairs.

“I’ll mention it to her,” Hawke said. “Maybe see if she can check the roster for who was posted there.”

“Nah, it wouldn’t do any good. Whatever guards were assigned there, _were_ there. The market only needs two when it’s slow. That was a guard who wasn’t on duty. Not here, in any case.”

He felt a tug in his hair and swatted at it, only to find Hawke’s hand.

She laughed and held up a feather. “This was in your hair. Can’t have you looking like Anders.”

“Oh,” he said. His eyes drifted above hers, then he smirked. “Huh. I thought you had one, too, but it’s just your hair.”

She swatted his shoulder. “Here I am, trying to be nice and preserve your suave exterior, and you mock me.”

“Oh, please. You just wanted an excuse to touch my hair. I’ve been around Rivaini too long to fall for that.” He readjusted his coat, shrugging it back into place after having to hustle away from the chickens.

Hawke rolled her eyes and brought them back down to Varric—and paused.

“Hold up, Varric,” she said, tugging his shoulder to stop him. “You’re going to have to take that off.”

Varric quirked a brow. “Why, Hawke,” he said slyly. “If you want me to undress, don’t you think we should wait until we’re back at my suite?”

Hawke rolled her eyes again, unfazed, and jabbed a finger into his ribs. Varric flinched as her nail dug into his skin, no doubt leaving a mark—wait, his skin?

“You’ve got a rip in your tunic, genius.” She kneeled in front of him, tugging the material toward her for a closer look.

Varric, seemingly the only one aware that they were stopped in the middle of the Lowtown market stalls, tried to look casual. He caught Lady Elegant glancing curiously at them.

“I could fix this for you,” Hawke said.

“Only if you charge less than my tailor.”

She looked up with a grin that had turned mischievous. “No charge, but I’ll need you to undress, after all.”

He laughed a loud, genuine laugh and planted a hand on her face, pushing her abruptly away. Several passersby stared at them, but he didn’t care. He held out a hand to her and tucked it in his elbow when she stood, leading them to the Hanged Man.

“Come on, then, you ridiculous woman.”

 

 

11.

“Anything good?” Hawke asked from over his shoulder.

Varric knelt in front of the chest he’d opened while Hawke had finished off the last of the bandits.

“Not really. Some gold, some old armor. Should be able to get something for it, but probably not much.”

He looked up and paused. There was a fairly deep cut across the bottom of Hawke’s chin. Blood trickled down her neck and dripped onto the sand at her feet.

“Hey, does that hurt?”

He climbed to his feet and pointed. She furrowed her brows.

“Does what hurt?”

She lifted a dirty, blood-soaked hand toward where he indicated, and he stopped her. Both of her wrists in his hands, he directed her to step back until she reached a fallen tree at the edge of the clearing.

“You’ve got a cut on your chin,” he said, taking off his gloves. “You touch it with those hands and you’ll get a disease.”

Hawke sat amused while Varric rifled through his coat pockets for his handkerchief—still clean, thankfully—and soaked it with water from his canteen. He tilted her head back and gently wiped away the blood trickling down her neck. Her breath turned to a hiss as he dabbed at the cut.

“Didn’t even notice,” she mused.

“Hold still.”

She did, arching a brow at him until the next throb of pain made her grit her teeth. Varric made a face.

“There’s sand in it.”

“Not surprising,” she remarked. “I’ve got sand everywhere.”

“I’m only concerned with the sand in your face, thanks.”

Merrill wandered over and watched Varric’s progress. “You know, that’s the stillest I’ve ever seen you, Hawke.”

“Dwarven hands are magical in their own right, Daisy.”

Hawke rolled her eyes as Merrill giggled. She tried to pull away, but Varric’s grip on her chin tightened. It had been a half-hearted attempt, anyway.

“The last time I tried to get her to sit still, she punched me,” Anders griped. “Now I just wait until she passes out from blood loss.”

“That’s because you make a big deal out of papercuts,” Hawke interjected.

“You finger was nearly severed!”

Hawke waved a hand impatiently.

“I’m telling you,” Varric said smoothly. “Magic dwarven hands.”

Hawke scoffed, drawing Varric’s eyes again. He paused a beat, winked at her, and directed her to press the handkerchief to the wound. Hawke stared, confirming that, yes, Varric had actually just _winked_ at her. He patted her cheek and rejoined the others.

 

 

12.

“Carver would have liked you,” Hawke said, suddenly clear as a bell after her words had slurred together for most of the night.

Varric knew the name, of course—the Hawke twin who hadn’t made it past the horde. Hawke had mentioned him before, but only briefly and only with his prompting. Varric hadn’t wanted to press a clearly sensitive topic and he hadn’t heard the name uttered since. From what he conjectured, their mother blamed her for the loss.

They slouched in their seats long after everyone else had left. Several drinks too many after several hours had left them both struggling to stay upright, but Hawke had apparently begun to sober up in the silence.

“I’m a likable guy,” Varric said neutrally. He was still rather drunk, making it difficult to quickly eke out Hawke’s thoughts.

A soft sadness had crept into her eyes, so different from their usual strength. She looked at him—really looked at him. Not a glance or a quick dart of her eyes as was typical, but a long, lingering stare. It unnerved him to have such intensity directed at him and only him.

“He would have pretended he didn’t, and given you so much shit just because he couldn’t stand not to have my attention, but he would have liked you a lot. That whole younger brother shtick…he’d have latched onto it at every chance.”

The depth of her sadness made it impossible to look away. Made it hard to breathe, even. After what seemed like centuries, she looked away to stare through the table. Released from her gaze, Varric swayed and took a steadying breath.

“You miss him.”

“More than I thought I would,” she said. She shook her head with a hint of a smile. “He was such a shit. I couldn’t do anything without inadvertently pissing him off.”

Varric put a hand on her arm. She didn’t startle, but she still seemed surprised whenever he touched her. He wondered briefly if her family ever offered any comfort. If they’d given her even a moment to mourn after Carver’s death—after their father’s death—or if they’d just taken advantage of her willingness to carry them all along. He hated to think about Bethany this way, but he also couldn’t bring himself to think differently. Not after seeing Hawke like this.

Hawke put her hand over his. When he interlaced his fingers with hers, she let him. And squeezed.

“I am very drunk,” she said with a small laugh.

It was an apology for the heaviness. It was also a lie and Varric marveled that he could tell. He suspected the liquor had worn off over an hour ago.

“My bed is big enough for two,” he said without thinking.

Hawke stared unblinkingly, watching him intently waiting for him to clarify. Varric knew now that they’d never had an awkward silence before, because _this_ was _awkward_. But Hawke—blessed Hawke—was fully invested in pretending to be inebriated, and forced it to pass.

“That is tempting.”

Hawke gave him a searching look and he realized she was staring down his shirt. Had her pupils grown larger? Brown, doe eyes turned sultry? Hawke was such an unreal force of nature that it hadn’t really crossed his mind that she’d have desires. For the first time in a long time, he found himself thinking about a woman in a decidedly ungentleman-like manner. Caught off guard by having such a thought about _Hawke_ , he could only force himself to remember that sex was bad for business partners and even worse for friends, which, truly, they were.

“But I should get home before Bethany worries,” she said. She squeezed his hand and let go. “Thanks for the drinks. Goodnight, Varric.”

She stood and walked out of his suite with a last, rueful smile. Varric sighed and watched her close the door behind her. Maybe that was too much baggage, even for him.

 

 

13.

Varric and Hawke settled into their normal routine: drinking and cards long after the others had left for the night. Hawke had stayed late out of necessity at first. Too many drinks made it dangerous to wander the slums alone, and Varric refused to let her risk the walk. As her trust in him had grown, she had stayed for other reasons. Company. Stories. Comfort. There was always something else to talk about, and Varric always had another story to tell. Just one more drink until he finished his story, which easily became two, became three, became passing out on the table and waking up with a hangover.

Varric could explain away spending time in easy company, but could less easily explain away the long, comfortable silences. _That_ was new for Varric. He couldn’t stand having others around when he was writing or balancing ledgers, but Hawke, despite her commanding presence and irritating habits, didn’t annoy him the way people usually did. Varric could schmooze with the best of them and bullshit his way through just about anything, but a childhood spent learning the ways of the Merchants Guild had instilled him with a deep loathing for meaningless interactions.

And then there was Hawke, whose meaningless conversations didn’t irritate him. Because, really, they weren’t meaningless at all. Every minimizing word, every deflection, covered up something else and the two of them had loads of things they didn’t want to talk about. They created a language all their own, keeping the truth hidden and others out.

Even Varric had his off days, though, which was why he missed her meaning when she spoke up for the first time after a long lull in conversation.

“Does your offer still stand?”

For the life of him he couldn’t remember what he’d offered previously other than a drink (and those she never turned down). A brief pause was all he could let slide, but she didn’t give him anything. No smirk, no gleam in her eyes to give him a hint, because normally he didn’t need one.

“Which offer was that, again?”

“Is your bed still big enough for two?”

From her distracted tone, there was something else on her mind. It took her a moment to realize he was staring and her eyes refocused on him. The weight of her gaze was always disorienting and he struggled to remain neutral.

“What are you offering?” he asked carefully.

Hawke blinked once, twice, then barked a laugh.

“Oh, no, Varric. That’s not what I meant. I just wanted to sleep in an actual bed for once.”

A hot lump of regret sank in his stomach for not realizing her meaning earlier. If he had, then he wouldn’t have missed the chance to ask why she was avoiding her mother this time. Her humor at his implication covered the reason, whatever it was.

“What’s going on?” he asked, light enough to sound unconcerned.

“As wonderful as Gamlen’s hovel is, the offer of a soft, clean bed is really too much to pass up. I’m a fool for not taking you up on it before.”

He hid his sigh. “Of course, Hawke.”

He’d have to hope she would tell him in time, but he knew she wouldn’t. That wasn’t what they did.

They both settled into his bed, him above the covers with a separate blanket for propriety’s sake. As Varric started to drift off, Hawke’s restlessness startled him. She turned over endlessly, pausing only long enough to shake her leg in a self-soothing manner. He’d ask what was wrong if he didn’t already know the answer would be a lie. That wasn’t their relationship, but it didn’t mean he couldn’t help.

“Fretting won’t fix it,” he whispered, laying a hand on her shoulder.

She huffed in response, but seemed to settle into the covers. He applied soft pressure with his thumb at the base of her neck, rubbing slow circles. Her breath deepened after a while, her restlessness ceased entirely, and he drifted off himself.

 

14.

Hawke found herself drifting off to the sound of Varric’s voice as he wound through his narrative. Something about the Hero of Ferelden. It was funny that the Hero was Hawke’s cousin, yet Varric knew more about her. What she looked like, the magic she was capable of, who she had chosen to spend her life with.

They’d had a few rounds, but not nearly enough to justify how tired she felt. As he spoke, her consciousness faded. She sat with her knees drawn to her chest, arms wrapped around them and head resting against the back of the chair. The edge of the table dug into her shins and the armrest into her side. Varric’s voice warbled and faded, but didn’t disappear. Her eyelids were too heavy to keep open, but instead of seeing black as they closed, she saw Lothering. Her parents and the twins instead of Varric.

A vision of her cousin stood to the side, based almost entirely on Varric’s description. She was a paler version of Bethany, her father Fereldan instead of Rivaini. Her consciousness waved, falling and rising as she teetered on the edge of sleep, lulled by his voice.

“Hawke.”

//

Varric probably should have felt insulted. He’d been invested in describing the Hero of Fereldan standing over the defeated Arl Howe when he saw Hawke’s head dip suddenly. He paused briefly before continuing with a grin tugging at his mouth. Less than a sentence later, her head dipped again and he decided it was entertaining, rather than insulting. (If it were anyone other than Hawke, he’d have deemed the image adorable, but _Hawke_ and _adorable_ didn’t mix.)

“Hawke.”

No response.

“Hawke.” A little louder.

She inhaled sharply, as one did upon waking, and turned her bleary eyes to him.

“Am I boring you?”

She blushed and straightened her posture. “No! Shit, sorry, Varric.”

Her back slouched moments later and her chin came to rest on her knees.

“I promise to make my stories more interesting from now on.”

“It’s not that—” She yawned. “I didn’t sleep well last night, is all. You know you don’t bore me Varric. It’s not my fault your voice is so soothing.”

Her eyes closed again, giving Varric the opportunity to stare, brows raised, sure that she wouldn’t notice for once. Such honesty was unheard of from her, too tired for the typical wall between her thoughts and her façade. It pleased him to be able to see her like this. Not vulnerable, no, but open. Unguarded. He’d seen her pissed, and nervous, and _off_ , but never vulnerable. He wasn’t sure he could imagine (or handle) seeing a vulnerable Hawke.

“Soothing, eh?”

“You know it is. Can you carry me to your bed?”

“I don’t remember you asking to stay in the first place.”

“You mean you’re going to make me sleep at the table? Or worse, walk home?”

Varric hated that she was entirely correct in her assumption. Hawke was hard to say no to, especially when she looked tired (adorable) instead of deadly.

“Fine, but I’m not carrying your lanky ass anywhere.”

She groaned, but pushed her chair back enough to unfold said lanky ass and walk around the room’s partition.

“Such an obliging friend.”

“That had better not be sarcasm I hear.”

Varric followed behind, helped her with her boots because he knew she’d leave them on if he didn’t, and tucked her in. Assured that she was mostly settled, he sat beside her and took off his own boots.

“I didn’t mean for it to sound sarcastic,” she said, pointedly not looking at him. She’d suddenly become engrossed in a loose thread on her tunic.

“Is that the first time you’ve ever said that in your life?”

Hawke huffed and nudged him with her knee. He chuckled.

“Maybe. Probably. Doesn’t make it less genuine.”

“I dunno, Hawke. I’m so unused to you being honest that I have no basis. You could still be bullshitting me and I’d have no idea.”

“I try to be up front with you and you throw it back in my face!” She threw an arm over her face theatrically. “What can I do to assure you of my love?”

Varric laughed and flung a pillow over her face. “That tone is exactly why I can’t believe a word you say.”

“Sounds very genuine coming from the compulsive liar.” Hawke tossed the pillow across the room and snatched the remaining one.

Varric stared her down. “I’m not getting that.”

“And I’m not sharing.” She met his eyes in open challenge, fingers firmly grasping the pillow.

Varric sighed. Bluff called, he retrieved the pillow and brushed it off.

“You’re a brat, Hawke.”

With a wry grin she threw a blanket over them and settled down, breathing deeply.

“Night, Varric.”

“Night, Hawke.”

//

Varric fell asleep almost instantly. Hawke was sure she’d been too exhausted to even make it to the bed, but she’d somehow found the energy to egg him on. She was too tired to examine her behavior closely, but not too tired to realize that she’d never been this close to another person before. Relationship-wise, of course. Varric had filled in gaps she’d expected to always remain empty. Their warped humor. Their ability to tolerate bullshit with a grin and a joke. Their complete unwillingness to be serious, especially about serious matters.

When Varric’s breathing had deepened to the point where she was certain he’d entered deep, dreamless, Fadeless sleep, she rolled over and stared unabashedly at him.

As softly as she could, she said, “You know, Varric, I think you’re my best friend.”

There was no sign that he’d heard her, thank the Maker, and Hawke knew better than to try her luck. Confessing personal thoughts to sleeping friends wasn’t a great idea in the first place. Confessing personal thoughts at all was a struggle for her, and once was enough to last her at least a year. With a deep breath, Hawke closed her eyes and finally began to drift off to sleep.

Best friends, though. It was a happy thought. _Hawke_ was happy, a concept that was entirely new to her—and very welcome.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke and Varric pull each other through the many problems that arise before, during, and after the Deep Roads expedition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: Hawke's mabari is named Sandor after the ASoIaF character.

_I._

_H-_

_HM. Now. Alone._

_-V_  

The messenger came moments after Hawke walked through the door to her uncle’s hovel. Odd, considering they had only parted ways just an hour or so ago. She had even asked if Varric wanted to play cards, but he’d had to check in with some of his contacts. For a moment she considered that he had changed his mind, but “alone” worried her. 

Back out the door, Hawke compulsively patted her change purse. The fifty sovereigns were long gone, but that didn’t mean that she would risk leaving the remainder within Gamlen’s reach. Bartrand had begrudgingly accepted Hawke as an official partner the previous week after she’d handed the funds to him. His people had scoped out the best entrance weeks ago, and he had been waiting on enough money to finally get the expedition on its way. Varric had told her to anticipate another week of waiting before all supplies had been triple-checked.

Hawke grabbed two mugs of ale on her way up to Varric’s suite. As soon as she walked through the door Varric motioned for her to close it. 

Varric was hunched over an assortment of missives from his many contacts, reading glasses still perched on his nose. Hawke was used to them, but he rarely wore them openly—certainly never with his door open. He looked grim and much more exhausted than when she had left him a short while ago. She tried to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach and sat in her usual seat to his right, setting the mugs down in front of them. 

“So,” she began. “I take it you still don’t want to play cards.” 

“I got some bad news while we were out,” he said slowly. Hawke could tell that he was buying himself time to explain whatever was on his mind.

“Don’t keep me in suspense,” she said lightly, her last shot at denying the serious conversation she knew was about to happen. 

Varric glanced up at her, and for the first time she was aware of his age—not old by any means, but the lines forming around his eyes and mouth were particularly pronounced in this moment. She saw the quip form in his mind, but the weight of his news was enough to push their usual joking aside. He dragged a hand down his face.

“You know I have people watching over all of you,” he said at last. “While one was checking in on your family he noticed the Templars hanging around, so he looked into it.” 

Deep down, part of her knew what Varric was going to say. She knew that Meeran’s revenge had included a tip to the Templars. He was dead now, after a misguided attempt to kill her, but he had still lived long enough to cause her grief. She knew that Sister Petrice remained an open threat. _And_ she’d heard Cullen’s suspicions in the Gallows courtyard only a few weeks ago. 

And yet, she was still unprepared for when Varric said—

“They know about Sunshine.” 

_No._  

Hawke felt ill. Like the floor beneath her had suddenly opened.

“No. _No!_ Varric, how--?” She kept her voice low, but it was panicked. Her hand blindly sought out the note among his pile but he intercepted it with his and squeezed until she let him intertwine his fingers with hers. 

“I don’t know how, but they’re almost positive. Waiting on a last report from the look of it.” He searched for the next words, agitatedly drawing circles on the back of her hand with his thumb. Hawke knew grasp on his hand was crushing, but she felt inches away from detaching. She needed something to anchor herself to and Varric’s unwavering presence was the only thing around to ground her. “It looks like they’re coming this week.”

Hawke thought she had finally gotten used to fucking things up for her family. Turned out she was wrong. 

“What do I do?” she whispered. 

“ _We_ ,” he said firmly. “You’re not alone.” He waited for her nod before continuing. “Bartrand has everything. We leave for the Deep Roads tomorrow. I’ve already let him know, told him a lie about the city reexamining the permits. I think this is our only option.” 

She nodded. “Right. I’ll go home, tell Mother and Bethany—” 

“Already taken care of. As soon as you left I sent a note. You and Sunshine are staying here tonight, just in case. I have a contact escorting her here as we speak.” 

“How did this happen, Varric?” Hawke put her face in the hand that wasn’t tightly gripping his. “I was so _careful_.” 

“I have my people on it.” Varric brought his free hand to her chin, forcing her to look at him. “If someone tipped them off I’ll find out, and we’ll make sure they never speak again.” 

The fierceness in his voice, his eyes helped clear some of the panic she felt. She ignored the burning behind her eyes, strengthened enough to think.

“Who else do we bring?” 

“That’s your decision. I haven’t had the time to convince Bartrand to let us bring more than four, but we can grab some of his men when we need the help.” 

“Anders, then,” Hawke said. “He knows what we can expect, he can sense the darkspawn. And if the Templars have been keeping tabs on us, they likely suspect him as well.” 

“I’ll let him know,” Varric said, standing up. He placed a hand on her shoulder long enough for her to grab it briefly before he left in search of a messenger.

 

_II._  

 

Bartrand’s betrayal surprised Hawke less than she would have expected. Her life had taken on a very distinct pattern, and that was that things could—and would—always get worse. 

But Varric . . . It hurt to see _him_ so hurt. His anger came so suddenly, foreign to both of them, that he didn’t seem to know what to do with it. The shouting tapered off quickly as the anger made way for resignation. 

Hawke attempted to pick the lock, but the ancient dwarven mechanisms were far different than the ones Varric had taught her. When she broke her second to last lockpick, Varric turned away in defeat. Anders and Bethany were still halfway up the stairs to where the idol had sat for Maker knew how long, stunned and frozen where they stood. Hawke took advantage of the semi-privacy to kneel before Varric, hands on his shoulders. When he refused to look at her, she grabbed his face and made him—briefly struck by how recently their positions had been reversed. 

“Varric,” she said quietly, fiercely. “We are not standing here and waiting to die.” 

“Hawke,” he hissed just as intensely. She had to ignore the sudden pain in her chest at having that bitterness directed toward her. “We’re miles beneath the surface, in parts of the Deep Roads that no one has stepped foot in for _centuries_. We have no map, no help, no _food_. How are we getting out of this?” 

“Hey, I didn’t say we were going to live,” she said with some humor. Her hands dropped to his shoulders again, now that she had his attention. “I’m actually quite sure we’re going to die down here.” His eyebrows shot up to his hairline and his jaw dropped so comically that she had to laugh. She placed a finger under his chin, closing his mouth with a click. “But imagine the story if we don’t.” 

He snorted a laugh involuntarily. For all the bullshit they exchanged, at least it was never the optimistic kind. She had found the one thing that could get his mind back into gear and focus. To start writing the story. 

“I hope you never have to write inspirational speeches,” he said, and Andraste’s flaming pyre, he couldn’t help grinning at her. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

 

_III._

               

The longer they were trapped in the winding maze of the Deep Roads, the more sure Hawke was that this would be their grave. 

There weren’t nearly as many darkspawn as she had imagined, but the shades and golems weren’t much improvement. And despite the lack of darkspawn, Anders wasn’t doing well. As the days went by—well, she imagined days must be going by, though with the utter darkness it was hard to tell—he retreated further inside his own head and jumped at every sound. 

During one unending slope further down, Hawke had kicked a rock out of frustration. Anders erupted in blue light and turned on her, staff raised and an inarticulate shout on his lips. Varric tugged her down behind him, Bethany dispelled Anders’s magic before he could cast, and that was that. But no matter how many times he apologized, Hawke decided to keep a few more steps between herself and Anders from that point on. 

When the Profane appeared, she nearly threw her daggers down in defeat. She was exhausted from acting as tank for her three companions and, in all honesty, wanted to give up. Let them pound her into the stone. Let it be done. 

But Hawkes didn’t give up, and she wasn’t going to leave the others to their fates without her there to shield them. 

The Profane gave no indication of weakness and they couldn’t be stunned. Hawke’s blades hardly had any effect. They came in waves, seemingly from the ground itself. When she saw two sneaking up on Varric, she choked on her shout of warning. The pit of her stomach dropped even as she dug her heel into the stone and pulled off a rush at the last second. The thought of this stupid expedition, of his brother’s lunacy getting Varric killed—killed before her, at least—was too much. Her mind, cruel as ever, summoned images of his broken body at her feet, glazed eyes looking through her—

_NO_. Not this time. She would _not_ watch someone die right in front of her again. 

Hawke made it to Varric just in time. She only managed to tackle one, knocking it over before its clubbed limb could make contact with Varric’s skull. The other swung and she was barely able to elbow Varric out of the way before the club came down on her left shoulder, slashing to the bottom of her ribcage. She hit the ground hard enough to see stars before everything went black. She felt the grit of dirt and rocks on the side of her face and heard the strangled shout of her name. _Varric?_ It sounded like him, but so panicked that it was nearly beyond recognition. She only heard her own name and assumed that everyone else was all right. The relief that washed over her was enough that she could almost ignore the pain everywhere. The snap of ice from her sister’s spell was followed by the sound of the Profane crumbling. 

A firm hand on the back of her neck held her down when she tried to get up. Her vision focused again and she became aware of someone tearing her tunic. The warmth of healing magic—Anders then, Bethany’s healing spells were tinged with cold—flowed across her back, sputtering out after a few seconds. 

“I can’t,” Anders panted. “I’m spent, I can barely stop the bleeding. I-I’m sorry.”

“I’ll try in a little while,” Bethany soothed. “The bleeding’s stopped, but it’ll probably scar. I might be able to do something about it, though.” 

“Don’t waste your energy,” Hawke said, lighter than she felt. “I’m told ladies love scars. Not sure about men, though. Hm . . . I might have to rethink this.” 

“I’m sure scars are preferable to a dead body,” Bethany said dryly. 

This time no one stopped her from lifting herself to her knees so she could assess the damage. Her back protested and she couldn’t lift her left arm above shoulder height, but no one else had more than a superficial cut. Good. Bright side of things, and all that.               

Anders moved to set up camp and Bethany followed. He tried to start a fire without magic, but gave up and scrunched his face in concentration—and pain—as he called on the last dregs of his mana. 

It seemed like every important matter they brushed off in the last year had come back to bite them in the ass. _Drowning in our own mess_ , she mused. 

Varric sat on his knees beside her, oddly stiff as he watched her try to move. Once she made eye contact, neither of them could break it. The intensity of his gaze and all this seriousness between them of late was throwing her for a loop. They had been reaching out to each other more often down here, subconsciously looking for some form of security in the dark. Hawke kept grabbing Varric’s shoulder for “balance” through every half-caved in tunnel they came across (they were all half-caved in). When her sleep was made fitful by nightmares and Varric was on watch, he ran a hand through her hair until she quieted, not removing it until her own watch came. During her watch, Varric stayed up to keep her company until he dozed off on her shoulder, which only happened after she rubbed comforting circles on his back.   

Hawke held out a hand and he grabbed it immediately, grateful for the invitation to confirm that, yes, she was alive. He broke their gaze first, eyes roving over her for more signs of injury. A reassuring squeeze of her hand seemed to pacify him, but he brought his other hand to her cheek. Half his glove had been torn off and there was a sudden stinging; his callused fingers traced a scrape from where her face collided with the cavern floor. They came away bloody. The look on his face was some far-removed cousin to fear, hidden from Anders and Bethany, but not her. Not even if he had tried. 

“You saved my life,” he said at last. “Though I could stand to never see you knocked down like that again.” 

“I can’t let anything happen to my trusty dwarf,” Hawke said through a forced grin. “But I would very much like to _not_ be on the front line anymore. I don’t know how Fenris and Aveline do this. It’s fucking terrifying.” 

“I’d take the elf’s arguments with Blondie in a heartbeat if it meant you didn’t have to anymore.” He injected some humor into his voice and she was grateful. As fake as it was, at least he was acknowledging  the shifting dynamic between them and trying just as hard as her to deny it. After all, she was still pointedly ignoring the terror that flooded her when she saw Varric’s life in danger. 

“Never thought I’d hear you say that,” Hawke laughed. It sounded hollow, even to her. 

Varric grinned in return, but it faded faster than she would have liked. He occupied himself with brushing the dirt off her shoulders and out of her hair. A hidden pocket in his duster revealed a semi-clean cloth that he used to dab at the cut on her cheek. His hand stilled, eyes fixed on the blood still seeping out. He startled when Hawke’s hand covered his.

“I’m all right,” she whispered. 

A pause followed before Varric finally nodded in response. She was unsure how to address this new gravity between them, but the likelihood of death was enough for her to freely offer what little comfort she could. Hand still covering the one resting on her cheek, Hawke turned her head until she could press her lips to Varric’s palm. She pretended not to hear his sharp intake of breath, and that her mind didn’t fleetingly wonder what his lips would feel like. Her eyes rose to his and the thought of one last roll in the hay before they die was not unattractive. Varric certainly wasn’t. 

“Do you have any idea how filthy my hand is?” Varric said, faking reproach. It was hard to tell in the dimly lit cavern, but she thought a faint blush colored his cheeks. 

Hawke regrouped her thoughts, quickly repressing the traitorous ones that must have been a byproduct of accepting her inevitable death down here. 

“Still not as filthy as Corff’s swill and we both drink that like it’s water,” she retorted, and they both laughed. 

Good, weird moment averted.

 

_IV._

 

Once Bethany was carried out of sight by Stroud and his men, Hawke fell heavily to her knees. No amount of coaxing could get her to acknowledge them, so Varric and Anders set up camp a dozen feet away and waited. 

“Bethany is an excellent mage,” Anders said quietly. “She’ll make it through the Joining, I’m sure.” 

“I don’t think that’s the problem here, Blondie.” Varric didn’t want to know what the Joining entailed and why survival _wasn’t_ guaranteed. 

Hours passed and Hawke still wouldn’t move, so Varric got up from where he had been keeping watch, careful not to wake Anders, and sat next to her. An almost imperceptible tilt of her head told him that she knew he was there. If he hadn’t spent so much of the last year getting to know her he would have missed it entirely. 

“This isn’t your fault, Hawke,” he said at last. 

“How isn’t it?” Her voice rasped with disuse and lack of drink. “If there’s an award for sheer number of fuck ups in one lifetime, I think I’ve won by a landslide.” 

“Life handing you the shittiest end of a shit-covered stick is still not your fault.” 

“I should have kept a better eye on her. Kept the darkspawn from getting so close.” 

“In case you haven’t noticed, you’ve been filling the role of meat shield for three very fragile people, and you’re not exactly built like a battering ram.” 

When she didn’t respond, eyes still fixed on the last place she saw Bethany, Varric’s hand found her back. The contact made her jump at first and he withdrew it, but she grabbed his knee tightly and he put it back. 

“Besides, I thought the odds were in favor of us dying down here.” Varric risked a humorless chuckle. “Sunshine will probably outlive us all now.” 

Near-hysterical laughter burst out of Hawke, and she promptly shut her mouth with a click. After a long pause Varric wrapped an arm around her waist, as much for his own comfort as for hers. She choked on a sob, suppressing it before tears could form, and tightly wrapped her arms around his shoulders while burying her face in his neck. She knew how much she’d just scared him—she’d scared _herself_ —but she couldn’t trust her voice to form the apology and gratitude that she owed him. He knew, though. And if this dreadful place was going to be their grave, at least they wouldn’t be alone. 

“Atta girl,” Varric’s voice didn’t betray any emotion, but his touch, grasping and desperate, was enough to tell her that he wasn’t doing well either. Somehow, it was more comforting than anything he’d said. “Let’s find another tunnel to die in.”

 

_V._

               

When the tunnel they trudged down suddenly spat them out into the wilderness of Sundermount, they were left reeling. They hadn’t eaten in five camps and were so deliriously exhausted that they hadn’t noticed the air changing. 

Anders dropped to his knees as silent sobs wracked his body, tears leaving clean streaks through the dirt on his cheeks. Varric didn’t have to politely pretend not to notice, as he was quickly distracted by his own dizziness. Suddenly, Bartrand’s irrational fear of falling into the sky wasn’t so irrational. He had to swallow the urge to hit something—or vomit. 

Meanwhile, Hawke swayed to his other side, drawing in big, frantic gulps of air as if she were drowning. On some level, Varric realized that she was panicking. It was enough to distract him from his own troubles so he latched on to it—grabbing her shoulders gently and making her face him while giving her enough space to breathe.

“Hey,” he soothed. “Hawke, it’s okay. Breathe. You’re all right.” 

Hawke’s eyes frantically darted everywhere and she grasped the tattered lapels of his duster in a white-knuckled grip, unsure if she wanted to push him away or pull him closer. The resulting shaking of his person was _not_ what his lingering nausea needed. Her gasps for air were soon joined by faint whimpers that slowly grew louder. 

“Hawke, shhh, it’s ok. We’re fine. We’re out and we’re all fine.” 

She couldn’t focus on what he said, the sudden expanse of sky still too much to process after so much time underground, so he tugged her down to her knees. The impact stilled her long enough for him to cup her face and keep her from jerking around as much. His thumbs caressed her cheeks of their own accord and he hoped it was a comforting motion. 

“Niamh. _Niamh_ , you’re okay. We’re right outside Kirkwall. This’ll pass, just breathe. Come on, deep breaths.” 

Something resonated because her eyes finally seemed to focus on his. Her body visibly sagged and she sank back on her heels. After a moment her hands rose to cover his. 

“Varric,” she whispered so softly that he couldn’t hear, having to read his name on her lips instead.

“Flaming fucking Prophet, I thought it was another nightmare.” She abruptly tugged on his lapels again, bringing her forehead to his chest while her breathing calmed. 

“Nope, this is all real. Fortunately or not.” Soothing her was easier now that his dizziness had mostly passed. He ran his hands though her hair, brushing back the strands that stuck to her face and neck. 

“How aren’t we dead?” 

“Maker only knows. Though we could still get mauled to death by bears before we make it back.” 

Her laugh was shaky, but it was something. 

Peripherally, Varric saw Anders wiping his face and getting back on his feet. Hawke’s arms encircled his waist suddenly, briefly, before she stood. Her face showed no sign of distress, and he had to wonder how she became so adept at pulling herself back together in such a short period of time. 

They made the trek back to Kirkwall proper, arriving as the sun started to crest the mountains, and went their separate ways.

 

_VI._  

 

Varric was washing off the grime and blood in his suite when he heard the lock on his door being picked. 

“Just me,” Hawke said from somewhere near his table. The wall separating his bedroom guaranteed his privacy so long as she didn’t walk around for a peek. 

“Sorry I can’t properly greet you,” he said lightly. 

Hawke didn’t respond for several minutes, though he heard a chair being pulled out and her weight slumping into it. He continued to scrub at his skin, and wondered vaguely how many baths it would take before the last trace of the Deep Roads finally left him. Probably not until Bartrand had a dozen bolts in him. 

“Mother kicked me out,” Hawke finally said, so quietly he almost missed it. “Asked if I was happy that I got another one of her babies killed.” 

Varric silently cursed the Maker, the Stone, whatever the hell decided to pile so much shit on one woman—and himself, for dragging her onto this stupid expedition in the first place. As he dried himself off quickly and changed into clean clothes for the first time in, according to his calendar, over two months, he heard Hawke suddenly push her chair back from the table to stand. 

“Sorry, Varric. I didn’t—I know you aren’t exactly having a great time of things, either. I’ll see myself out, I’m sorry.” 

She barely made it two steps before he rushed around the wall and inserted himself between her and the door. Hawke sidestepped—how she could be so light on her feet after everything was beyond him—but he caught her wrist. He saw that she hadn’t had a chance to wash up before being forced out; her skin and armor were still caked in grime and blood. 

"Your mother knew the Templars were coming. There's no way you could have predicted what happened. If anyone's at fault it's me for not thinking Bartrand capable of, well," he trailed off with a heavy sigh. 

" _I_ wasn’t careful enough. I’m _never_ careful enough!" 

“Hawke—” 

“It would have been so much easier if I had just died down there,” she said without emotion, covering her face. 

“Shut up, Hawke,” he said gently, pulling her hands away from her face and holding them. “I know you love beating yourself up over not foreseeing the future, but give yourself a damn break once in a while.” 

She visibly deflated, eyes on the floor to avoid his. 

"My palatial suite is your palatial suite.” 

Hawke hesitated. Varric let out an exaggerated sigh, placed his hands on her hips, and turned her around in one swift motion, pushing her toward his bed. One pointed look and she sat still. He left the room briefly before returning with several of the workers, who then proceeded to arrange a fresh tub. 

Hawke washed the layers of dirt off, finally tended to the wound on her back, and changed into a spare set of Varric’s clothes. His pants ended right below her knees, but they’d do for the night. He helped apply a poultice to the wound before she pulled the shirt over her head, cringing the whole while as he remembered the Profane that gave it to her. 

“Varric,” she started, but she couldn’t seem to find the words. She settled for grabbing his hand and giving him the best estimation of a smile she could manage. 

“I know.” Varric brought a hand up to brush her dripping hair away from her face, letting it come to rest at the back of her neck. Though he didn’t tug, Hawke leaned forward of her own accord, resting her forehead against his. He only had a moment to be caught off guard before she turned out of his grasp to curl up on the edge of his bed. Varric joined her, at a respectable distance, and rubbed a hand along her spine until they both fell asleep.

 

_VII._

 

Varric and Hawke slept through most of the next day. He got up long enough to send a messenger to Gamlen’s house to retrieve Hawke’s things—and Sandor, whom he had not expected—before settling back into the covers for another ten hours. 

While Leandra waited for the paperwork to be approved that would return her childhood home back to her, Hawke remained in Varric’s suite. She ignored everything related to the Amell estate, save her mother’s occasional requests for more money to cover the numerous fees Bran seems to be hitting her with out of spite. The irony of Leandra needing money from the daughter she kicked out was not lost on her, but now without Bethany to benefit from her newfound wealth it all seemed pointless. So she acquiesced to every request and continued not talking to her remaining family. 

Varric did what he could to lift her spirits. Wicked Grace night began again and the crew was back together. Aveline kept a closer eye on Leandra in lieu of Hawke’s eviction. Isabela, finally fed up one day with their leader’s lackluster appearance, sat Hawke down and took a knife to her unruly locks. She had been in need of a haircut before the expedition, and the three months of delay had left her hair a shaggy mess. Isabela cut it short in the back and long in the front with the messy bangs Hawke was so attached to, and Hawke began to feel human again. Merrill gently took her hands in between games of cards and painted her nails a pale blue. Hawke stared at them with a soft, if sad, smile the rest of the night. Fenris brought excellent vintages of wine to share with Hawke alone, making sure that she didn’t pour for herself in her state. Anders understandably avoided them for a time, tending to his patients. 

And other than the fact that he now shared a bed most nights with his best friend (and really, what kind of friend would he be if he let her stay in one of the Hanged Man’s roach-infested rooms?), Varric’s routine settled back into place. Though, now there was considerably more Merchant’s Guild bullshit to avoid thanks to Bartrand’s unexplained absence. Hawke interfered with his business less than he expected considering her usual determination to distract him. Then again, she barely had enough energy to get out of bed. When he had stacks of paperwork, she took one of his books into the other room; if he had to meet with a contact, she headed down to the bar to see Isabela; and when he was up late balancing ledgers for both of their finances, she always made sure to leave enough room for him. And despite the potential for awkwardness, Hawke had grown so accustomed to the narrow cots at Gamlen’s that she barely moved from where she fell asleep.

Even though they quickly resumed their banter, Hawke remained less cheerful than he could ever remember seeing her. No letters arrived from the Grey Wardens, and no indication was given that her mother wished to see her again. He managed to get her to take walks for Sandor’s sake--the mabari’s restlessness was beginning to drive him up the wall—but even this she did with reluctance. The imposing stature that had caught his eye in Hightown weeks before he had finally approached her was gone, replaced by a slumped figure who shuffled her feet. 

To make matters worse, neither of them would broach the subject of their behavior in the Deep Roads. It hadn’t been awkward, per se, just . . . new. An unexpected development. And likely a result of the severely stressful situation of being _trapped in the Deep Roads and convinced they were going to die_. But they had only known each other a year, and even considering their near-death experience it was odd to have grown so close in such a short span—wasn’t it? So they danced carefully around it, pretending there was no problem while acting the opposite. Varric and Hawke talked an obscene amount, but much of what they said was meaningless bullshit drenched in sarcasm. Honest communication between them required looks, gestures, touches. Now whenever one absently made contact, they both recoiled as if burned. With the newfound awkwardness between them they might as well have been speaking different languages. 

It made it nearly impossible for Varric to offer any substantial comfort. He missed the contact and the easy comfort of their friendship. He missed _her_. After a year developing their own private, unspoken language, it felt like they were starting over. 

More than a month passed and Kirkwall’s weather turned with the advancing winter. The ocean brought strong, frigid winds with it, but snow was almost unheard of and usually melted before hitting the ground. The people of Kirkwall pulled out their coats and sweaters and carried on with their lives, waiting for the chill to inevitably break in a month or so. 

Perhaps it was the influx of Fereldans in Kirkwall, but the weather changed this year, and every year after for a long, long time. 

“All right, Hawke,” Varric said one day, throwing his quill down. He couldn’t concentrate on his ledgers and Hawke was sprawled on their— _his_ —bed, content to spend another day unmoved. “Get your ass up. We’re going for a walk.” 

“Why?” she drawled from the other room, not lifting her head when he came around the dividing wall. 

“Because you’ve barely moved in days. Let’s go.” 

“You’re just avoiding the shit you have to do.” The whine in her voice made him clench his jaw. The fact that she can still read him like a book despite their rough patch was another point of irritation, since he couldn’t seem to do the same with her. “You don’t even like being outside.”

“Wrong on both counts—” 

“Liar.” 

“Okay,” he snapped. “Maybe I don’t like the Maker-forsaken wilderness you drag me through, but Kirkwall proper is perfectly fine with me.” 

When she didn’t answer he grabbed her hands, ignoring her reflex to pull away, and dragged her to her feet. Her look of irritation almost made him laugh, but he choked it down and gave her a once-over. He pulled out a worn, oversized sweater that came with her things and tossed it at her. She caught it and pulled it over her head, grumbling all the while. 

“Stand up straight.” Varric couldn’t help the urge to heckle her further. 

“And here I thought I _wasn’t_ living with my mother anymore.” 

Hawke did _not_ stand up straight, but she complied when he pushed her out of the suite by the small of her back and towards the door. 

A gentleman even in the face of Hawke’s griping, Varric opened the door for her and stood aside to let her out first. But in the process he was bombarded with _cold_ and _wet_ and— 

“Andraste’s _tits_ , what is this?” he exclaimed. 

Bitterly cold air burst through the door and went straight down his open shirt while his face was pelted with—rain? No . . . 

Snow. 

The street was covered in over a foot of pure white bullshit. It fell thick and heavy, promising even more would pile up throughout the day. A gust of wind sent drifts of it into the Hanged Man, and somewhere behind him Edwina shouted. He found himself pushed roughly out and the door slammed shut behind him. The shock still had yet to wear off—his entire life had been spent in Kirkwall and _not once_ had more than a dusting touched the streets. 

He forgot about the cold, though, when Hawke’s breathless laugh cut through the wind.

Maker, he’d _missed_ it. 

Hawke outstretched her hand, catching big white flakes that contrasted starkly with her brown skin before melting. A wide, toothy smile lit up her whole face, snow catching in her dark hair and eyelashes. When she turned her still-beaming face to him, Varric’s heart skipped a beat, her smile making his chest swell with a happiness he hadn’t realized he’d been denying himself since their return from the Deep Roads. Maker’s balls, he didn’t write such terrible clichés into his own novels (well, actually he did, they were almost entirely clichés; but that _any_ comparison could be made concerned him). 

“Varric, I haven’t seen snow in almost three years!”

_And I haven’t seen that smile in three months_ , he thought to himself. 

Hawke made to run off but Varric caught her arm. This time when she looked at him he managed to keep it together. She practically bounced in place with excitement, so different from the woman he had to literally drag out the door, and so much more like his best friend. 

“Let me grab an actual coat, at least.” 

Hawke was apparently suited for the snow—because of course she would be—and took only a crimson scarf before they headed back out. Varric, bundled in a thick duster that didn’t quite come up high enough to block the wind, shivered in the cold and regretted his decision to go back outside. When he trailed behind far enough, Hawke saw his pitiful trembling and turned back. She unraveled the scarf from her neck and wrapped it around his own. He tried to stop her but she just brushed him off. 

“You clearly need this more than I do.” 

She tugged on the ends so it tightened, blocking out the wind, and tucked them into his coat. It was soft, _warm_ , and it smelled like her. 

“Keep it. I’ve been meaning to make a new one.” 

Varric sucked in a breath when her fingers brushed the side of his face, untangling a thread of yarn that had wrapped around one of his earrings. The familiarity settling back into place between them warmed him more than her scarf, though he wouldn’t go so far as to give it back. An earnest smile on her lips, she grabbed his arm and pulled him along the snowy streets. 

And just like that, they were back to normal.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An intermission of sorts while I continue working on the next chapter, which is longer than I expected (because I'm in Varric/Hawke hell and can't control myself).

Varric returned to his suite and shrugged off his coat and scarf with a huff. Kirkwall’s winter had mostly passed; the snow was gone save the occasional pile, but the frigid ocean winds persisted. 

His day had been spent discussing the last few pieces of treasure from the expedition and he was truly exhausted. Seeing Bianca always exhausted him, and for less tempting reasons with each passing year. Kirkwall was limited in buyers of ancient dwarven artifacts so he’d had to make use of her and her contacts. They were both content with their separate lives now and kept in regular contact, but seeing her brought everything back; the old feelings, the regret, everything. He wasn’t sure the impact she’d had on his life would ever fade. He wasn’t sure he wanted it to.

So he ignored the ache in his chest and reached for his best bottle of whiskey, a reward he had been saving specifically for this day, only to find it gone. Instead, its spot on the shelf was occupied by a note with an arrow pointing up and a crudely drawn bird. 

Varric’s groan filled the suite before he once again donned his coat and scarf, and headed up the many stairs to the Hanged Man’s top floor. There was no actual door to the roof because the roof wasn’t _meant_ to have anyone on it, so he had to maneuver himself out of the window at the end of the hall and pull himself up by the gutter. He masked his desire for this day to just _end_ before Hawke saw him. 

Hawke sat on the edge in her worn sweater, legs dangling and bottle in hand, calmly watching the sun set over the city. Ever since finally receiving word from Stroud that Bethany had survived the Joining, she had been so much more at ease. 

“Serah Hawke,” he panted in an annoyed greeting. “You have more money than you know what to do with and you decide to take the most expensive bottle of whiskey I own.” 

“Oh please,” she laughed. “You stole this from Jevan when he shut down your gambling ring.” 

“That’s beside the point.” 

Hawke held the bottle for him to see that the wax seal was still intact before turning back to the expanse of buildings sloping down to the docks. 

“Huh,” he said, genuinely surprised, though he supposed he shouldn’t have been. He joined her, sitting so their legs almost touched. She passed him the bottle and he worked on carefully slicing through the wax. “So if you didn’t come to sneak my whiskey, why did you?” 

Hawke turned her head to watch his progress, eyes rising to his face. “I like the view.” 

“Thought you had a better one now,” he mused. “An estate to go with it, even.” 

“That’s a matter of opinion.” Hawke turned to briefly look at the Hightown skyline before resuming her view of the sun setting over the sea. “I’m not exactly suited to nobility.” 

Varric finally removed the seal and opened the bottle, passing it wordlessly to her but she pushed his hand back. 

“You need it more, I suspect.” The look on her face was suspicion masked with curiosity. 

Varric was positive she didn’t actually know how he’d spent his day—or rather, who he’d spent it with. The guilt was unexpected, however. Hawke kept tossing little glances his way, letting him know she’d picked up on his exasperation. By now he really shouldn’t be surprised when she read his moods, but he had actually put effort into hiding his frustration. 

She shrugged and nudged his thigh with hers. “You always turn the bottle a certain way when you intend on saving it for later. And that’s only when you anticipate a truly shitty day.” 

Varric grunted noncommittally and tilted the bottle back for a long draught. He took a moment to enjoy the warmth that spread through his chest before passing it to Hawke. 

“Just an old friend,” he said finally. “Not sure if ‘friend’ applies anymore, but I need to find buyers for the more unique pieces we brought back.” 

An odd blankness glazed over Hawke’s eyes when he said this, and he wondered if she _did_ know. But she took a drink and the moment passed. 

“So what did you mean by not being suited to nobility?” 

“Oh,” she chuckled. “Only that I’ll probably ruin the Amell name within a year of reinstating it. I may have threatened the Seneschal today.” 

“You know he’ll only make your life more difficult, right?” Varric took the bottle back from Hawke and let his hand linger on hers for a second longer than necessary. She had been limiting her contact with him ever since she noticed his annoyance, giving him back his space after invading it on what had clearly been a rough day. Whether this was for his sake or due to her own suspicions he wasn’t sure, but he wanted to reassure her either way. 

“He was already doing that. I went to pick up the final deed today and he said there was _another_ fucking fee he had overlooked. So I told him that I had recently been informed that his son is still _unwed_ , and heavily insinuated that an alliance between our families would help work things out. Told Bran I might start dropping by to call on him.” 

“You threatened to _marry his son_?” The disbelief quickly made way for laughter. He elbowed her side as he doubled over. 

“You should have seen the look of horror on his face!” Hawke leaned on his shoulder, shaking with laughter of her own. “I could have threatened to flay him alive and he wouldn’t have blinked! But the idea of having me forever involved in his personal life? Apparently _that’s_ too much.” 

“I can sympathize with him, there,” Varric said, though it was ruined by his inability to keep a straight face. 

“Oh!” She smacked his shoulder with a bout of shocked laughter. “You bastard!” 

He grabbed her wrists to keep her hands at bay. “Hey, don’t knock over the bottle! Someone spent a lot of money on that!” 

“You love me, Varric Tethras.” Hawke grinned as he relinquished her hands. “And you damn well know it.” 

“Don’t let Bianca hear you.” Her smile was so infectious he couldn’t help but return it, even as he ignored the twinge in his chest that accompanied Bianca’s name. 

The corner of Hawke’s mouth was still upturned as she took a long drink, watching him out of the corner of her eye and raising a single eyebrow. 

They passed the bottle back and forth until it was empty, long after the sun had set and the stars came out. In a fit of terrible, drunken decision making, Hawke tossed it as far as she could. Alarmed shouts two streets over had Hawke and Varric scrambling drunkenly and giggling like mad as they climbed back through the window. Even with her awkwardness exacerbated by drink, Hawke’s lankiness got her through easily; Varric, not so much. Despite her lack of coordination, she tried to steady him as he jumped down from the windowsill and only succeeded in knocking them both over. They remained where they fell on the floor, shaking with laughter until an aggravated Norah chased them down to Varric’s suite. 

They fell asleep haphazardly splayed across Varric’s bed, and woke up in a tangled, hungover heap the next afternoon.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Varric insults Hawke, and she touches everyone else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay between chapters. I'm inundated with assignments this semester and can only edit chapters on the train at this point. I'm writing the next one now, but the two after that are pretty much done so I'll be able to drop them all at once hopefully.

“I’ve been thinking about this story, Hawke,” Varric said. 

Hawke groaned and slumped in her seat, making sure to keep her cards hidden. “I can’t believe you’re seriously writing a story about me. I’m kind of a mess in case you haven’t noticed.” 

“You’re the center of a hurricane.” Hawke raised an eyebrow so Varric continued. “It sounds better. Besides, you’re the one who suggested it in the first place.” 

“Only because I never expected us to make it out of the Deep Roads alive. I shouldn’t be held responsible for words spoken on the assumption of inevitable death.” She drew and rearranged her hand. “And I didn’t think you’d write it about _me_.” 

“Who else would I write about? _Me_?” 

“It stands to reason.” 

“Who writes a story about themselves?” Varric scoffed. “No, I’m the loveable sidekick with the heart of gold.” 

Hawke made an overly skeptical sound and muttered, “Heart of gold, my ass.” 

“ _Anyway_ , the hero needs a romance if it’s going to a be a good story. Dying aside, that is.” 

“What? Do I _look_ like the relationship type to you?” 

“Never been in love, Hawke?” 

“Only with your chest hair.” She discarded and used the proximity to walk her fingers up Varric’s arm in an attempt to touch his chest. He slapped her hand aside before she could reach it, letting out a long-suffering sigh. Hawke laughed. “In love? No. In _volved_ , yes.” 

“Do tell. I’m having a hard time imagining you with Lothering farm boys…” 

“I’d rather you not imagine me with _anyone_.” 

“Can’t blame me for having an active imagination.” 

“Who do I blame for your big mouth, then?” 

“Hey, no speaking ill of my late parents.” Varric drew a card. “Involved…?” 

It was Hawke’s turn to sigh. “They were Templars, not farm boys. Though there was a farm girl or two.” Varric’s look of surprise made Hawke bark out a laugh. “The best way to keep their attention away from Bethany was to have them drooling after me at half-mast. For the devout sort they were really quite easy to get into bed. I must have slept with half of them.” 

“Just when I think you can’t possibly surprise me anymore, you go and prove me wrong,” Varric said wryly. “So about this romantic interest for the novel…” 

“Nope, not participating in this. Go talk to my mother, I’m sure she’d be very interested. She’s already trying to find me a husband.” 

“Yeah? Hm. Some snooty noble won’t do… ” Varric considered this for a moment, wiping the inquisitive look from his face when Hawke’s eyes narrowed in a chilling glare. 

“This is ridiculous. And it’s your turn.” 

“Is it, though?” Varric discarded, picking up two cards in a show of such pathetic subtlety that Hawke slapped them out of his hand. 

“Now I _know_ you’re too into this idea if your cheating is suffering.” 

“There’s no one who catches your eye?” 

Hawke raised her eyes to his with such a dangerously blank look that he relented. 

“Fine!” He lifted his hands in placation. “Consider it dropped.” 

He shuffled the deck and dealt a new hand to them both, pausing when Isabela sauntered into his suite. She tossed a lascivious grin Varric’s way and headed straight for Hawke’s chair. 

“Ah, Rivaini. Good timing, I’ll deal you—” 

The words died on Varric’s tongue as Isabela sat on Hawke’s lap, knocking the cards out of her hand, and kissed her full on the lips for a _very_ long moment. 

“Isabela, stop that,” Hawke said when they finally broke apart, though her mouth tugged up at the corners. 

“Oh, Sweetness,” Isabela cooed, arms around Hawke’s neck. “How about a repeat of last night?” 

“What did I miss?” Varric was surprised his voice recovered so quickly, because his mind was still reeling. 

“Just some _girly fun_ , Varric,” Isabela said, turning to him. “You could join us later, if you’d like. I’m sure Hawke has no objections.” 

“Not tonight, Isabela,” Hawke said, pushing the woman back and ducking her head to hide the flush on her cheeks. 

“You’re no fun,” Isabela pouted. “Well, if you change your mind you know where to find me.” 

The pirate got up with a wink at Hawke and headed back to the bar. Hawke avoided eye contact, but Varric wasn’t going to let her off that easy. 

So,” he said casually, dealing out another hand. “ _No one_ catches your eye, eh?” 

“Oh, shut up,” Hawke snapped. 

“And definitely not the relationship type?” 

“It was just for fun.” 

“Uh _huh_.” 

Hawke threw her cards at him and stomped down to the bar to grab another drink. 

Varric thought maybe it wasn’t so surprising upon consideration. Hawke and Isabela got along famously, but this was the first time Hawke’s flirting had been brought to his attention. He had never actually stopped to consider how much _they_ flirted. It was a natural accompaniment to their general flippancy, and up until now that was all he had seen it as. Now he was inclined to view it with a more critical eye. Usually Hawke was at his side when everyone got together, leaning on his shoulder or sneaking sips from his mug when hers emptied and she didn’t want to get up. That she spread those attentions around when she wasn’t with him was something he’d never had the chance to consider. 

 ***

It had been a while since anyone saw Daisy leave her home so Varric accompanied Hawke to check up on her. They found Merrill staring at the Eluvian, as if it would give her the answers she sought if she only looked long enough. 

“It’s so beautiful,” Merrill said in an awed voice. 

“You’re much prettier,” Hawke said smoothly. 

Merrill blushed at the unexpected compliment and Hawke winked at her. “Oh, I’m sure you say that to Varric at least a dozen times a day.” 

“It’s true,” Varric cut in. “Shame I’m not into humans.” 

He almost missed the look Hawke gives him. She clearly hadn’t meant for him to notice the glance, but they were far too familiar to miss much. _Hurt_ fluttered across her features so quickly that he could almost convinced himself he’d imagined it. 

Hawke recovered quickly, linking arms with Merrill and guiding her out the door. 

“Just a quick stroll through the market,” she said in an overly-enthusiastic voice. 

Varric followed them out and quietly trailed behind while Merrill pointed out various things at the stalls. 

Hawke ceased physical contact between them shortly thereafter. Varric became painfully aware of the absence, but couldn’t quite entertain the idea that he was even a _little_ jealous when she began blatantly cozying up to the rest of their group. It was the first time he had to wait to get her attention. He didn’t like it. 

Although, there was one benefit to her no longer being a constant presence at his side: he had the opportunity to observe just how magnetizing Niamh Hawke truly was. 

She had not the conventional beauty of Bethany or Leandra. Hers was fierce in a way that poems and songs never took the time to describe or appreciate. It was magnetic— _she_ was magnetic, drawing the eyes of those around her wherever she went. 

Hawke’s chestnut eyes were heavy-lidded, and when she turned her gaze on him—or anyone—they very clearly said _you_. Her lips were always quirked in a lopsided smirk that set people at ease. Her smile promised mischief and death and laughter, and somehow hadn’t scared the shit out of him yet. When her lips parted with laughter, the sound filled the room and infected everyone in it. Varric wondered how anyone needed her to speak when her face was so expressive; between her drastic eyebrows, her lips, the scrunching of her nose, everything on her mind was spelled out so clearly for him. The air sizzled with her presence when she swaggered into the room. She was the damp chill in the air before the skies opened; the smell of ozone after a storm. Dangerous and beautiful and a little unstable, all wrapped in twine too fragile to hold it together. 

And he was by no means the only one who noticed. Varric hadn’t exaggerated when he said Hawke was the center of a hurricane, and somehow everyone looked to her for guidance despite her unpredictability. Even the Viscount had turned to Hawke to solve the city’s problems. Their companions’ eyes followed her faithfully when she walked into the room, when she spoke, when she fought. Watching her now from the outside was so different from when he had been learning her tics in the beginning of their partnership. As he observed how no one could take their eyes off her, he had to wonder if _he_ followed her as attentively (the obvious answer was _yes_ , but Varric wasn’t ready to process that yet). 

Hawke possessed her own gravity and they had all been drawn in. When she turned her pull away from him, Varric had been left stumbling after her, grasping for purchase at the furthest edge of her attention and trying to find his way back to the orbit closest to her again.

 *** 

Wicked Grace night came and everyone showed up for drinks. Hawke sat next to Sebastian,  intermittently leaning on his shoulder and talking in his ear. Ordinarily, Varric would find humor in her teasing the blushing Chantry boy, but instead the occasional throb of irritation filled his head (and was quickly repressed, leading to a headache that couldn’t be ignored as easily as Hawke’s behavior). Her seat next to Varric remained blatantly empty until Isabela occupied it, slyly grinning at him while he dealt. 

“Isn’t this interesting,” she murmured loud enough for only him to hear. 

“What’s interesting?” 

He knew that he couldn’t fake ignorance for long with Isabela. Very few people gave her the credit she was due, focusing instead on her drinking or her promiscuity. They forgot that she was lethal in battle and most at home on a ship commanding a crew of two dozen men. She probably preferred to be underestimated, but Varric knew better than to take her lightly. Isabela was observant, _very_ observant, and in this moment he wished she weren’t. 

Though he wondered why Isabela didn’t seem jealous; she and Hawke had been spending more than the occasional night together. Hawke claimed to not be the relationship type, but Varric knew chemistry when he saw it. 

“Don’t act like you don’t know.” 

“Rivaini, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He hoped he was more convincing than he sounded to his own ears. 

Isabela’s grin turned wicked—not convincing, then; perfect—and she spent the rest of the night dropping little glances in his direction every time Hawke touched Sebastian. 

The others ignored it for the most part, chuckling occasionally when Hawke managed to make him flush a particularly deep shade of red. 

“Why, Sebastian!” Hawke exclaimed, moving so that she was nearly draped over him. “You seem warm! You should change out of that armor. Your face is absolutely _flushed_.” 

“Hawke, I-I-I—” Sebastian stammered, having reached his limit and standing abruptly. “I need to get back. To the Chantry. Thank you f-for a lovely evening everyone. Please excuse me.” 

And he rushed out the door. 

To their merit, they waited until the door slammed behind him to start laughing. Varric could only manage a half-hearted snicker. 

“Practically at half-mast and still so polite.” Isabela’s rich laugh was cut off only when she took another drink. 

“Hawke, you are _awful_ ,” Anders said, clearly believing the exact opposite. 

“He’s really quite easy to fluster,” Merrill giggled behind her hand. 

Hawke sighed, drinking deeply from her mug. “If only I _could_ get him out of that armor.” 

 “No shame,” Aveline muttered. 

“How about it, Aveline?” Hawke shifted, leaning into the redhead on her other side, eyebrows waggling. “Want to go somewhere private and take that armor off?” 

Isabela whooped but the rest of them groaned. Someone yelled, “Hawke, _no_.” 

“Hawke,” Aveline said casually, “I watched you shit in a bucket for two weeks on the ship from Gwaren.” 

Laughter erupted around the table again. 

“Is that a ‘no’ then?” 

She peered at Hawke over her cards, face neutral except for a single raised eyebrow. 

“All right, all right,” Hawke laughed. “I’ll stick to stripping Sebastian. Or trying to, at least.” 

Varric, still pointedly _not_ bothered, reshuffled and swallowed his sullenness.

 *** 

Fenris was far more receptive to Hawke’s flirting, smiling along with her advances. She sat as close to him as he was comfortable with, enjoying the timbre of his voice and making him laugh all the while. The fact that she respected his ire for physical contact encouraged him, and somehow this bothered Varric even more. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he vaguely remembered pushing her toward a romance for his novel. He was less than fond of the idea now. 

It had been a week since Hawke withdrew the little touches they shared. She didn’t avoid Varric by any means, but she consistently happened to miss him leaning in to nudge her with his elbow, turning away before he could make contact; when he reached for her hand to get her attention, she retracted it to lift her drink to her lips instead. So much as a _glance_ in her general direction used to be enough to capture her full attention and now she barely looked at him. It was frustrating him to no end. 

“Everything all right, Varric?” Isabela asked innocently, sneaking up behind him. 

“Why wouldn’t it be?” 

“Because our lovely leader has left your side to grace us all with the attention you’ve been hogging for _four years_.” 

Varric ignored her. He must look pathetic if Isabela had dropped the insinuations and gone right for the truth. 

“And _you’re jealous_.” 

“What reason could I possibly have to be jealous?” he snapped. The moment the words left his mouth he regretted them. Having gotten what she wanted, Isabela’s only response was to laugh and saunter away. 

 ***

Hawke knew she’d pushed her ceaseless flirting too far when she spent the night hanging on Anders. He played along, letting her link her arm with his and peek over at the cards in his hand. At no point did he seem to take her seriously, but when cards were done and everyone was heading out for the night, Anders tugged her to the side just down the hall from Varric’s suite. They were both drunk, which didn’t help, and he leaned in to kiss her, a hand tangling in her hair. 

“Anders, what--? No!” Hawke pushed him away. Not hard, she didn’t want him falling over. 

“You’ve been dropping hints all night,” Anders slurred, steadying himself and reaching for her face again. 

“Yeah, I _drop hints_ with everyone, Anders.” Irritation seeped into her voice. She was annoyed with herself for not expecting this as a potential consequence. The first time she had flirted with him, he had taken it so seriously that she should have known now not to joke about it with him. “I’m not interested. Go home.” 

“I—” Confusion flickered across his features for a moment before they hardened. “Right. Fine.” 

Anders didn’t push further, and the disappointment in his voice filled her with regret. She’d been making a mess of things.

_Shit_. 

This had only been meant to push Varric’s buttons after his careless remark about not being attracted to humans. It felt like a stake had been driven in the middle of their teasing, and such a direct comment surely must have been intended to put a stop to it. 

It hurt. Hawke was certainly attracted to Varric—she was attracted to many people—and she flirted incessantly, but he instigated just as often as she did. They got along so well that it had honestly seemed like harmless fun between friends. But that remark had made it seem like he couldn’t even keep up a pretense anymore for the sake of joking. 

So being the very mature adult that she was, Hawke was determined to make Varric as uncomfortable as _she_ had been. But now it was only making things worse and Varric wasn’t taking the invitation to apologize. She missed their friendly, completely platonic relationship—despite some occasionally questionable behavior.

 *** 

Hawke avoided the Hanged Man for a few nights, only returning when she was fairly certain Varric wasn’t going to confront her on his own. 

Varric looked up from his paperwork, mildly surprised when she sat next to him. 

“Hawke,” he greeted, though he looked guarded. That alone filled her with even more guilt. 

“Don’t worry,” she said through a sigh. “I’m done with—whatever was going on.” 

He stilled, watching her carefully. Hawke extended a hand toward his but stopped herself halfway there. Varric grabbed it before she could pull away and rubbed slowly at her calloused fingers. 

“At least I’ve got plenty of options for your story now.” 

“Ugh!” Her dramatic groan helped cement the return to normalcy. “Please stop.” 

“We’re sitting on a gold mine, Hawke,” Varric said, settling right back into their usual banter. “I’ve already got a crowd of regulars who come to hear stories about you.” 

“I don’t even want to know what you say about me.” A lie. As much as Hawke hated to be the center of attention, she loved the excitement that snuck into Varric’s voice when he told stories about her latest exploits. 

“Good things, Hawke. Only good things.” 

There was a moment of brief but meaningful eye contact between them. Varric’s held a silent apology, having realized his own part in this by now. Hawke decided she didn’t need him to say it out loud. She relinquished his hand so he could continue writing unhindered, picking at the dirt under her nails. 

“And always beautiful,” he said softly. 

Her head jerked up and shock consumed her features before she could even think to hide it. Varric watched her intently. It wasn’t the first time he’d called her beautiful, but it _was_ the first time it felt like a sincere compliment and not a facetious part of their banter. Thankfully, Hawke was still too shocked to blush. 

Her sarcasm recovered first, as always. “Even for a human?” 

“Human, elf, dwarf, whatever,” Varric said, scratching the bridge of his nose. 

The blatant honesty is more than she expected from him, and she still cannot quite school her expression. 

“What?” He took a stab at levity and fell just short. The corner of Varric’s mouth turned up hesitantly, brows furrowed with embarrassment. “You know I’m a compulsive liar.” 

It was all the apology she needed, and something else she hadn’t realized she wanted. 

Still embarrassed, Hawke did the only thing she knew how to: she grinned and deflected. “How do I know you’re not lying now?” 

“I guess that’s up to you.” Varric smiled and returned to his writing. 

Hawke lifted herself out of her chair with a dramatic groan and walked over to Varric’s, sitting on the arm of his chair and leaning heavily on his shoulder. He adjusted to support her weight and tipped his head back to give her a wry grin. Hawke was too close, she knew this. But in this moment she didn’t care.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke's careless behavior catches up with her and Varric offers a shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for the comments and kudos! It's done a lot to help me feel more comfortable with my writing. 
> 
> It's come to my attention that I used a lot of psychological terms, so if that's bothering or confusing anyone, please let me know! It's what I'm currently studying and takes up most of my life, so it's weaved its way into my writing here.

Hawke walked through the door of the Hanged Man at an hour when most of the patrons had either left or passed out on the floor. Varric had tucked himself in one of the darker corners with a candle and a stack of papers detailing plots for his next novel. Sometimes the noise made it easier for him to think, but tonight he had mostly stared at the pool of wax formed by his dwindling light.

Hawke must have felt his stare because she met his eyes almost immediately. There was a slump to her shoulders that he was sure she’d reveal the source of momentarily. She passed the bar and gestured to Edwina for a drink. 

“We’re closed, even for you,” Edwina griped. 

Instead of responding, Hawke threw a sovereign at her and promptly received a pint, along with one of Edwina’s dirtiest looks. 

“Varric,” she said in a carefully neutral voice. 

“Hawke,” he responded. “Didn’t expect you tonight.”            

She sat heavily on the bench next to him, rather than the one across, meaning she must not have wanted him to see her face. That wasn’t a good sign. 

“Trust me, I had very different plans.” She downed half of her pint in a few gulps and peered at his writing. 

Honestly, he had stopped hours ago. He’d been writing bawdy limericks and making crude drawings in the margins while bribing Edwina to keep bringing him drinks. He felt her eyes boring into the page before him so he shuffled a blank one over it. As soon as he turned to face her she turned back to her pint, head hanging and hair blocking her face. If she thought she could come here looking like that and _not_ have him pry, then she didn’t know him at all. A nudge of his elbow against her side earned him an annoyed grunt, but got her talking. 

“Fenris showed up earlier,” she said slowly. “He was angry about the whole thing with Hadriana. And then the flirting was brought up. Anyway, we. . .well. You know.” 

“Ah.” Varric figured it was in his best interest to offer as little feedback as possible until he was more certain what she needed, although he had to admit this was unexpected. For someone who had just _you knowed_ she seemed less than satisfied. Sure, he’d noticed the flirting—Hawke was many things, subtle was not one of them—but Hawke flirted with everyone. Even when she had seriously tried to seduce anything that moved a few months ago, she had done so with _everyone_ , not just Fenris (actually, she had skipped right over Varric, but admittedly that was his fault to start with). If she’d had a romantic interest in the elf Varric was fairly certain she would have mentioned it during one of their late nights together. From what Varric understood after years of friendship—and unsuccessful attempts to get her involved in his story about her—Hawke liked to have fun, not relationships. 

“He—” she took a steadying breath before continuing. “He left. Said it was too much.” 

_Well, shit_. 

Silence spread between them for several moments. Varric didn’t want to bullshit her with the usual platitudes; _I’m so sorrys_ and _He doesn’t deserve yous_. They surrounded themselves with so much self-deprecating humor and sarcasm that it would be an insult to waste breath on the stereotypical comforts most people exchanged to make themselves feel better. When it came down to it, he and Hawke did everything they could to avoid serious matters. From the moment he’d tracked her down in Hightown, they had silently agreed that if they could find a way to laugh about it, it wasn’t that bad. Simple, easy, no complications. 

This, though...This he wasn’t sure how to handle. Mostly because he wasn’t sure how _she_ was handling it. Her face was a careful mask of detachment. When Hawke _really_ didn’t want Varric to know what she was thinking she was somehow able to completely suppress the tics that he had learned to look for. He had never worked out how to do the same. Though Hawke never called him out on his lies, there was always a knowing gleam in her eyes before she joined in again. 

“Want to talk about it?” 

He _really_ hoped she didn’t want to talk about it. Honesty didn’t come easily to him—to either of them.  Carta assassination contracts, disastrous trips to the Deep Roads, dead family, all met with as much avoidance as they could manage. 

“Fuck no,” she laughed bitterly and finished her pint. 

He made a sound that was part chuckle, part gratitude. His hand found her forearm and absently drew circles on it. Hawke leaned toward the contact and tilted her head in his direction—her way of thanking him. 

She craned her neck around, empty tankard in hand as she searched for Edwina. 

“Hold on,” Varric said and got up. He lets his hand trail before breaking contact. “I’ve got something better.” 

He returned from his suite a moment later with glasses and a bottle of whiskey—aged and dwarven and the best bottle he currently had. 

“Isn’t that supposed to be for happy occasions?” Hawke remarked dryly. 

“It’s for occasions, period,” he replied, pouring  for them. “Good or bad. I should mention that the only reason I was able to procure this is because you found my noble cast pin and my letters could finally make it into Orzammar. I think you deserve a share of the spoils.” 

“Have I mentioned recently that you’re my favorite?” Hawke said with the lopsided grin he had grown exceedingly fond of over the years. 

“Not often enough, if we’re being honest.” 

They clinked glasses and downed the contents in one gulp. Varric refilled them and returned his hand to Hawke’s arm. Hers joined it this time with a soft squeeze, and he used the opportunity to take inventory of her appearance. There were bags under her eyes, but thankfully no signs that she had been crying. Her hair was a mess, but no more than usual. Streaks of gray had begun to creep into the hair framing her face, and he wondered vaguely when that had started. 

She didn’t seem upset at all, actually. Just tired. She had been looking that way more often than not recently. 

“I can feel you staring, Varric.” 

And of course her crooked grin, fleeting but still there, was another good sign. 

“In the face of such beauty, Messere, how can I not?” Varric was sure that heart to hearts were great and all, but he much preferred their banter. Why get hung up on what you couldn’t change? 

“We both know that’s a load of crap,” she laughed, and it was the best thing Varric had heard all night. “I look something awful.”

There was a moment of companionable silence before she took a deep breath and broke it, intent on easing his worry. 

“Look, I wasn’t in love or anything. I wanted some fun, that’s all. Turns out Isabela was better for that. And I’m not angry with Fenris for what he can’t help. I just—” She sighed heavily. “I don’t know. I’m tired. I wish people considered me half as much as they did themselves. Hawke solves everyone’s problems and has none of her own, but _Niamh_ is sick of being tossed aside without a second thought. I don’t think people realize I’m still a person, not this—this— _entity_.” 

Varric wasn’t sure any combination of words existed that would comfort her. Kirkwall was a demanding mistress. As were their friends, her mother, the Viscount. So long as she was there to give, they would take. 

And _Maker_ did she sound tired. 

“My door’s always open for you, Niamh.” 

She responded by leaning into him, resting her head in the crook of his neck as his arm came up to wrap around her shoulders.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke helps Varric through Bartrand's death.

Bartrand’s death was harder than it had any right to be. When Varric approached her with barely contained excitement saying he had found his brother at last, Hawke’s thoughts had been consumed with revenge. But when they finally saw him, raving and mad with the lyrium’s song, revenge was expelled from her mind with a swiftness that left her hollow and exhausted. This wasn’t what they had fantasized about for over three years. 

Varric, beyond furious that even _this_ had been taken from them, decided that he would take every last drop of retribution he could. Hawke couldn’t bring herself to stop him. He pulled the trigger and it was over, but neither of them felt better. It didn’t fill the void of Bethany’s absence, forced to fight the Blight the rest of her short life. It didn’t make up for nearly three months trapped underground, starving and desperate. 

_We can’t fucking win_ , Hawke thought, heart heavy.

They looked lost standing outside of Bartrand’s mansion. Varric’s face was still splattered with his brother’s blood and Hawke wordlessly passed him her handkerchief, gesturing at her own face. Not knowing what else to do for him, she suggested getting drunk and Varric agreed immediately. Fenris and Merrill left them to their wallowing and Hawke slowly led Varric through the streets with a hand on his back, pulling him back when his preoccupation nearly sent him tumbling down the steps to Lowtown.

A group of Lowtown’s finest were gathered at the Hanged Man’s bar when they got there, bitter with Hawke’s rise to nobility and intent on making sure she knew it. She thought that perhaps the Maker existed after all as she cracked her knuckles in preparation. Hawke and Varric took on the five men in a brawl that quickly got out of hand, joined by Isabela when she heard the commotion. 

Norah retrieved the guards when the first table broke. Aveline was among the ones who responded and cleared the semi-conscious men out of the tavern. She had been informed of Bartrand’s fate by Fenris earlier, so she let Hawke and Varric off with a warning, but bought them both a drink on her way out. 

They retreated to Varric’s suite, leaning on each other for support. Hawke pulled two chairs out from the table and set them across from each other. She gestured for Varric to sit while she got a basin of cold water from downstairs. She sat down, knees brushing his, and they helped tend to each other’s wounds. Hawke had a shallow gash across her forehead and a large bruise blooming on her shoulder from colliding with what used to be a table; Varric sported a black eye and cut lip, the latter of which had swelled impressively. Hawke held a cold cloth to Varric’s lip and he dabbed at the blood on her face. Both of their knuckles were split and bleeding, but they were still conscious so that was something. Hawke debated whether or not consciousness should be considered a victory. 

The silence weighed heavily between them. Hawke didn’t know what to do. She wasn’t used to being Varric’s crutch; he was usually the one keeping _her_ sane. Her usual manner of comforting others consisted of a one-liner or a terrible joke—which thus far meant most people hadn’t turned to her for comfort. But she couldn’t laugh about dead siblings, and even if she could muster something Varric was the last person she wanted to upset with her ill-timed humor. 

“I killed my brother, Hawke,” he said softly, so softly. He sounded like a child. The hand tending her face fell limply to his lap. 

“Knock it off, Varric,” she said as sternly as she could manage, which wasn’t very stern at all. The cloth Hawke had been holding to his lip was displaced when he spoke, and she had trouble figuring out what to do with her hands. They itched to touch his face. 

“I made the wrong choice.” 

“There was no _right_ choice.” Hawke gently lifted his chin so that he looked at her and immediately regretted it. His eyes killed her. Was this what _she’d_ put him through countless times before? She owed him more drinks than she thought. 

Varric stood in frustration, his chest nearly colliding with her face due to their proximity. The anger swelled so suddenly that Hawke could do no more than watch as Varric paced the room. 

“I could have taken care of him!” He shouted. “Hired people to find a cure, _something_. If I had taken more than two seconds and actually _thought_ —” 

“You know there’s no cure for lyrium poisoning,” Hawke reasoned, trying to calm him down. “Every day he would only have gotten worse.” 

“I should have _tried_ at least!” Varric turned on her, fury etched into the lines on his face. She knew he wasn’t angry with her, but it didn’t stop the clenching in her gut. “Instead I killed the last bit of family I had left!” 

Sometimes Hawke managed to forget how similar their lives had been, how much they’d both lost, and what he said cut too close to everything she tried so hard to forget. Hawke grabbed his arm, holding tight when he tried to pull out of her grasp. She caught his other arm and jerked him forward. Off-balance, Varric was forced to stumble into her to keep upright. 

“The last bit of family who left us to die a slow death in the Deep Roads?” Her voice was quiet, calm but firm. “The last bit of family who made sure to try his damnedest to _kill us_ when we finally found him?” 

Varric’s face twisted with renewed anger but she cut him off. “There was _no. Right. Choice._ You could have either let him live and put him in an asylum so that the lyrium could eat through whatever was left of his brain, or you could have killed him and finally put this behind us. Don’t punish yourself because _he_ forgot who his family was in the first place.” 

A long moment passed where Hawke wasn’t sure if he would hit her or finally relent. Thankfully, his anger broke. He let out a long breath and slumped to the floor, adjusting to let Hawke take his hands. Without breaking her grip, she managed to slide out of the chair and onto the floor across from him. 

“I’m the last of my family,” he said at last. Defeated and tired and _sad_. 

“I promise to hound you about the Merchant’s Guild every day if it’ll make you miss Bartrand less.” 

Varric’s laugh was forced and rough. When his breath inevitably hitched and he ducked his face out of view, Hawke pulled him forward, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. He choked out her name and half-heartedly pushed her away, but relented almost immediately as his grief consumed him. Like a good friend, she pretended she didn’t notice the tears soaking into her tunic. His shoulders shook and he squeezed a hand between them to self-consciously cover his face. Hawke rubbed his back the slow, comforting way that he refused to openly admit he liked, and tangled a hand in his hair to bring his head against hers. 

“Thanks, Niamh,” he said when he could trust his voice again. 

“What are friends for?” 

They sat there for a long time. When Hawke decided to put him to bed she stumbled, legs asleep, and they both laughed. He pulled _her_ to her feet with some amused grimacing as her legs fill with pins and needles. She sat him on his bed, tugged off his boots, and untied the length of leather holding his hair back. Once he was settled under the covers she gave him a crooked smile and squeezed his arm before turning to head home. 

Varric’s hand stopped her. She turned to see him staring at it as if betrayed. He would never ask her to stay, wouldn’t put her through any more of the emotional crap that they were both so uncomfortable with, but she couldn’t deny him in his state. Hawke crawled onto the bed—above the covers—and ran her fingers through his hair, humming old Ferelden songs the way her mother used to when she was a child. 

Hawke was positive that Varric had fallen asleep when he mumbled, “You’re off-key.” She inhaled sharply in indignation, but he cracked his eyes open and cut her off. “Don’t stop. Please.” 

 ***

Varric showed up at her estate a few days later. By now his black eye was barely noticeable and there was only a faint trace of his cut lip.  In his usual light tone he told her that the Merchant’s Guild was breathing down his neck and the dwarven motifs in his suite were making him sick. The sack of scrolls keeping Bianca company over his shoulder made her grin. 

“I won’t even bother you,” he assured with a hand over his heart. “Tuck me in a semi-lit corner and I’ll stay out of your hair.” 

“Oh, please. I love it when you bother me.” Hawke grinned crookedly and stepped aside to let him in. She had made sure to see Varric every day—not that she didn’t already spend most days in his company—distracting him as best she could from the shit show that had taken place in Bartrand’s mansion. 

She called for Bodahn to bring a bottle of wine to her library and resumed her place on the couch, where she had been curled up with a book. Varric settled into the armchair and sorted through his papers. 

“Ah!” Bodahn exclaimed, arriving with the wine. “Messere Tethras, will you be staying for dinner?” 

“I don’t—” Varric began, shaking his head in the negative. 

“He will,” Hawke interjected, and dismissed the dwarf. When he left with a bow she turned to Varric. “You will.” 

“Who am I to deny a beautiful woman in her own home?” Varric conceded with a grin, taking the glass Hawke poured for him. 

They enjoyed the silence, Hawke returning to her novel and Varric scribbling away at his ledgers. The strain on his eyes became too much, or maybe he couldn’t stand to do anything related to Bartrand’s— _his_ —accounts, and he dropped his quill after an hour. After getting up to refill his glass, he peeked over the back of the couch at the book in Hawke’s hands.

“Anything good?” He leaned on her shoulder. 

“It’s absolutely the worst thing I have ever read. Want to see?” 

“With such an enthralling recommendation, how can I say no?” he remarked dryly, coming around the couch. 

She moved to give him room and handed him the book. When he took a seat, Hawke laid back and draped her legs across his lap. 

“ _Fifty Shades of Grey Warden_?” 

“Yeah,” she laughed as Varric skimmed a few pages. “It. Is. _Awful_.” 

Hawke reclined back as Varric began to read from the beginning. He didn’t read out loud, but ends up scoffing at so many lines that he read a good portion of it to Hawke. The lines didn’t surprise her, obviously. She’d already read through most of it in a horrified state, unable to look away, but hearing it in Varric’s voice made it much better the second time around. When he wasn’t gesturing wildly with his mocking repetition of the book’s dialogue, his hand rested on her shins, warm and idly tracing patterns. 

“ _My inner goddess does the Allemande with some Remigold moves_ ,” Varric mocked, pitching his voice higher. “What _is_ this and how did you convince me to read it?” 

“I didn’t make you do anything!” Hawke laughed, head thrown back and nudging his ribs with her knee. “You wanted to know what I was reading, and now I don’t have to suffer alone.” 

“Where did you even get this? Don’t tell me you _bought_ it.” 

“No, I got it from—” 

“ _Isabela_ ,” they said at the same time and laughed. Hawke was glad that she could help distract him. She had felt so useless in the aftermath of Bartrand’s death, but this came much easier to her. Bringing up the events from several nights ago clearly wasn’t on Varric’s agenda, and she was perfectly fine with that. 

“This is an insult to fiction,” Varric grumbled. “Even I could do better.” 

“Then do it.” 

“What? Start a romance serial?” 

“Why not? I can see it now…” Hawke spread her hands in front of her as if unrolling a banner. “From the author who brought you _Hard in Hightown_ comes…shit, what’s a good double entendre…Oh! Swords and Scabbards! Get it? Scabbard is a euphemism for—” 

Varric’s pained groan was cut off by the sound of the front door closing and Leandra’s voice calling for her daughter. 

“In the library, Mother,” Hawke called back. 

“Ah, Niamh,” Leandra walked in, pausing when she saw Hawke’s position. Despite the suspicion, her face warmed considerably upon seeing Varric. “Varric, nice to see you.” 

“Always a pleasure, Lady Amell,” Varric greeted, putting the book aside and self-consciously removing his hand from Hawke’s legs. 

“Niamh, could you _try_ to act in a way befitting your station?” 

“I’m wearing clothes, aren’t I?” Hawke grinned, and Varric had to hide his smirk with a sip of wine. 

Leandra took a deep breath before continuing. “I ran into the Reinhardts in the market. Willem is very interested in calling on you.” 

“Shame I’m not going to be here when he does.” 

Leandra paused for a beat, eyes narrowing slightly. “You don’t know when he’s coming.” 

“And yet I still have the strangest feeling that I’ll be busy elsewhere.” 

“He would make a very good match. The Reinhardts are well-respected in Kirkwall.” 

“I can say with absolute certainty that anyone so well-respected would _not_ be a good match for me, Mother.” She caught the curl of Varric’s lips out of the corner of her eye. 

“You will be the picture of politeness when he comes.” Leandra arched an eyebrow and Varric could see where Hawke got it from. 

“Yes, Mother,” Hawke drawled, watching her mother leave the room, daring to speak again only when she was sure Leandra wouldn’t hear. “I’ll be damned if I have to sit and play the proper lady with some spineless noble brat.” 

“Is he that bad?” Varric asked. Hawke’s responding look was deadly and he quickly amended himself. “Not that I doubt you.” 

“He’s terrible,” she groaned, head falling back in exasperation. “Pathetic excuse for a man. I think if I showed up in my leathers at the end of the day, covered in blood, he would actually die of a heart attack.” A look of dawning realization crossed her face as she seriously considered this. 

“Yeesh. I remember my family trying to arrange marriages to the daughters of various Merchant Guild members. They were nice, but boring. We would never have worked out.” He reflected for a moment before chuckling. “And then my family would have had to deal with being expelled from the Guild, in addition to the assassins coming after me for breaking the poor woman’s heart. Not worth the effort.” 

“We are both far too fucked up to function in normal, mundane relationships,” Hawke said, though she clearly wasn’t hurt by this revelation. 

“I’ll drink to that.” 

They clinked their glasses and downed the rest of their wine. A bell rang from the dining room. 

“I do believe dinner is ready.” Hawke swung her legs off of Varric and bowed, offering her arm. “Do allow me to escort you, Serah.” Varric linked his arm with hers, elbowing her in the ribs good-naturedly. 

Later, full with Orana’s hearty stew and pleasantly drunk on wine, Hawke and Varric resumed their spots on the couch. Hawke reversed her previous position, head resting on Varric’s knees and legs hanging over the arm rest. For the time being she was content to rest her eyes and listen to Varric’s occasional grumbling. Leandra had spent most of the meal discussing potential marriage prospects for her and she could feel a headache forming behind her eyes. Varric’s voice soothed her until he finally snapped the book shut and tossed it away. His hand weaved through her hair, eliciting pleased hums from her. 

“She’s really focused on marrying you off, huh?” 

“Somehow,” Hawke said with a sigh, but keeping her voice light—no need to be weighty when she was supposed to be raising Varric’s spirits. “I honestly thought she would do everything in her power to keep me out of the social circles she travels in, but I suppose since Bethany can’t accompany her she has to settle for me.”

Varric had no response other than a noncommittal grunt. 

“I don’t understand it. She’s putting me in the exact situation that she ran away from to marry Father. I’m even less suited for this life than she was.” 

“Have to say I agree. The thought of you popping out noble brats and entertaining the other rich bastards doesn’t sit right. Plus, you’d be too busy to visit your poor friend at the Hanged Man.” 

“That _would_ be a travesty.” Hawke laughed. “Then I’d really be following in Mother’s footsteps, sneaking out to gallivant with the Lowtown riff-raff until I marry one of them out of spite.” She paused, enjoying the feel of Varric’s fingers against her scalp. “I never thought I’d get the chance to have a normal life, whatever that is. Kind of assumed I’d be on the run for most of it, keeping Bethany safe. Normal seems so…boring now.”

“Rather sit in your friend’s lap with your skirt hiked up scandalously?” Varric chuckled. 

Hawke looked down and saw that, yes, the skirt of her finery had fallen rather low, revealing a large expanse of thigh. The abundance of wine in her system overrode any impulse she might have had to fix it, though, and she turned her head back up to Varric. “I would be content with that, yes.” 

His eyes took on a look that was…odd. She recognized the heat in them immediately, but couldn’t think of a time when she saw _Varric_ direct it at her. Or her mouth, as it were. His fingers ghosted over the cut on her forehead, healing but still visible, before trailing down the side of her face. It made her stomach flutter in a way that was simultaneously pleasant and nerve-wracking. 

Varric began to lean forward, head tilting to lessen the awkwardness of the angle. Hawke found herself instinctively licking her lips and turning her own head to meet his. She almost said his name, but deep down she knew it would break the spell they were under—wine and opportunity and things that somehow hadn’t happened a long time ago. 

It was quick and relatively tame, but, _oh_ , was it sweet. He tasted like wine, as she suspected she did. Stubble grazed her chin but his lips were soft, and despite how drunk they were, it wasn’t the least bit sloppy. The kiss was slow, tentative, and made her want _more_. Varric’s hand cupped her jaw, a thumb resting on her erratically beating pulse, as she grabbed the back of his head to deepen it. 

Somewhere, muddled with her last fragments of reason, Hawke was surprised that _she_ wasn’t the one to initiate this. She had always made her attraction to others clear, acting on it if there was any indication that they felt the same. But this…she hadn’t wanted to risk losing this. Their friendship was so natural and solid that she couldn’t stand the thought of ruining it. Varric was a grounding force in her nightmare of a life, and losing that would spell disaster for what few shreds of her sanity remained. So she had very responsibly repressed her attraction to him, burying it in jokes and flirting so over the top that it couldn’t possibly have been taken seriously by either of them. Now that he was kissing her, she was having a hard time justifying her initial hesitancy. 

As good kisses were wont to, it ended much too soon for Hawke’s taste. Heat curled in her belly and she seriously considered pulling him back down until she saw his face. Varric was a study in surprise, clearly taken aback by his own actions. So Hawke resisted the impulse. 

“That’s good wine,” he rasped out at last. He didn’t looking away or apologize or otherwise make this seem like an awkward, drunken mistake. That was something to tuck away for the future. 

“I’ll say.” A slow, lopsided grin spread across her face.

 *** 

They didn’t bring it up, which Hawke was more all right with than she might have expected, had someone told her that her best friend was going to kiss her out of the blue. Varric had stayed the night in the guest room, thanks in part to Hawke repeatedly refilling their glasses so they wouldn’t have to think about it for the rest of the night. 

There was a surprising lack of tension between them in the days after the kiss. Their banter picked right up where it left off the day before and they traipsed around the city as usual. Hawke felt like she smiled more, but Isabela hadn’t noticed so she was relatively reassured. The only difference was that Hawke found herself staring at Varric’s mouth more often. Varric noticed, because of course he would, and without missing a beat reminded her where his eyes were, pretending to button up his shirt in a show of modesty. She knew that _he_ knew very well where she had been looking. Hawke seriously considered catching him off guard with a kiss as payback, but then things might actually get weird without being able to use alcohol as an excuse. 

Varric touched her face more often now, though. He’d wipe at the corner of her mouth if there was foam from her ale, or flick her cheek if she wasn’t paying attention to him. When she was really on a roll of terrible jokes, he silenced her with a finger pressed to her lips, and she’d be damned if it didn’t linger longer than necessary. And there was this calculating look in his eyes when he stared at her mouth. She hoped he was considering a repeat performance, though he could also have been convincing himself it had never happened. 

Hawke didn’t care. As long as there was no awkwardness between them, she’d go wherever Varric wanted to with this (though who could blame her for wanting more?). 

“Hey, my eyes are up here, Hawke,” Varric’s voice interrupted her thoughts. A smirk tugged at his lips. 

Caught again. Well, maybe a little push wouldn’t hurt. She smirked and lowered her gaze. 

“I know where your eyes are, Varric.” 

When they parted later, Hawke headed straight for the Blooming Rose. She’d been a regular there since her failed fling with Fenris. Turns out sleeping through the ranks of her friends wasn’t the best idea in hindsight. She may have been forced to think about her more-than-friendly inclinations toward Varric, but that didn’t mean she would risk _this_ friendship with her stupid hormones. 

She requested one of the two dwarven men who work there, telling herself it was just for a change of pace. Denier happened to have sandy brown hair and a relatively trim beard, though if he was at all similar to her very good friend she didn’t let herself think about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know who actually started "Fifty Shades of Grey Wardens," and now so many others have used it. If anyone knows who should get credit for it, let me know.


	8. Chapter 8

In all his years of acquaintance with Niamh Hawke, Varric had grown used to her more invasive tendencies. Like Isabela, she refused to knock if there was a lockpick handy (and they always had a lockpick handy). To make his life more interesting Hawke would pick the lock as quietly as possible, then  kick the unlocked door open hard enough that it shook the walls and upended his inkwell. 

Conversely, she sometimes made such a racket trying to pick the lock that he would end up stomping over and opening the door himself. He would find her grinning up at him innocently before spouting some bullshit like, “Oh, Varric! I didn’t want to disturb you, I just had _such_ an urge to read one of Genitivi’s works. But since you’re awake. . .” She would then proceed to drag him to some horrid part of Kirkwall that only _she_ could find for endless hours of misery. This led to him purchasing several of Genitivi’s books for her and personally making sure they made it to her library. (This did not stop her.) 

And there were the times she snuck in so silently that he didn’t even realize she was there. Then she'd whisper in his ear and make him jump higher than dwarves were ever intended to. This was usually followed by bragging rights to “best rogue in the merry band of misfits.” 

So when she opened the door like a normal person and sat quietly at his table he knew something was wrong. Her back was stiff and she seemed to be angling it very carefully. Today he’d had an unavoidable Merchant’s Guild meeting to avoid, so he had politely declined her offer to clear out a warehouse on the docks. He suppressed a twinge of regret for not being there to pull her out of whatever fray she got herself into. 

“So,” he said cheerfully. “How were the docks?” 

“Oh, you know,” she said. “Same as ever. Smelly, full of raiders.” 

“You, ah, seem to be uncomfortable. Everything all right, Hawke?” 

“What, this?” She indicated the shoulder she’d been absently rubbing since sitting down. “Oh, it’s nothing. Just a bump.” 

“Uh huh.” Varric liked to think the skepticism in his voice made her flinch, but he had a sneaking suspicion it was actually from her attempts to get more comfortable. Hawke never sat if she could slump, and her straight back only made her look out of place and further highlighted the pain she failed at hiding. 

“Ugh, fine,” she huffed. “I might have been tackled by a reaver and fallen awkwardly.” 

“Everything you do is awkward, Hawke.” 

“Fuck you,” she said good-naturedly. “How was the Merchant’s Guild meeting you abandoned me for?” 

“Very important,” he said, shuffling the papers spread out across the table to discreetly hide his in-progress manuscript. “You know how pivotal I am to keeping those meetings on track.” 

“You or your imaginary cousin Elmand? In all the years I’ve known you I don’t think you’ve attended a single Guild meeting, so I'm fairly certain you’re full of shit.” 

“Why, Hawke!” His mock gasp made her snort laughter and promptly clutch her shoulder. “I can’t believe you’d make such baseless accusations against your best friend!” 

“I hurt my shoulder, Varric, not my eyes. I saw _Hard in Hightown_ in there.” 

“Yeah, well, priorities.” He eyed her closely for a moment as she pretended not to be in as much pain as she clearly was. “So, about that shoulder you just admitted to hurting…” 

A dramatic sigh. “I had Anders look at it. He healed what he could and rubbed some horrid-smelling concoction into it, but he has those dainty mage-hands and it wasn’t hard enough to actually _do_ anything.” 

“Did you tell him that?” 

“Well, no. But he’d still be too afraid of hurting me or something. He always forgets about the beatings I took in the Deep Roads,” she said with an awkward half-shrug. “It’ll get better eventually.” 

“Not with how often you’re out killing things,” Varric laughed. “A strong pair of hands should do the trick?” 

“Are you offering?” A tenseness filled her that was somehow different than her odd shoulder positioning. 

Ah, right. The kiss. Varric _had_ admittedly complicated things between them, even if neither were going to let it show. He didn’t know what he’d been thinking. Clearly nothing, otherwise he wouldn’t have compromised the most meaningful friendship of his life. What was done was done, though. Like most things in his life, Varric would decidedly _not_ deal with it until it came back to bite him in the ass. Although, it was getting considerably more difficult to think of Hawke in a strictly friendly way. 

And teasing Hawke was always a good time. He wasn’t about to deny himself the opportunity to fluster her. 

“I do have a vested interest in you being an effective shield between me and things trying to kill me,” Varric said, dodging the mug Hawke threw at his face, thankfully with the obvious intention of missing. “ _Yes_ , I’m offering.” 

“That. . .” she trailed off. For a moment she weighed her options, then grimaced when he jabbed her shoulder. “That would be nice.” 

“Good.” He rolled up his sleeves and dragged a spare wooden chair over. It would be easier for her to straddle than the stone chairs. “Sit.” 

“I—um, need help with my armor first,” she said sheepishly. “I can’t reach the buckles like this.” 

“Hawke! At least let me buy you dinner first,” he exclaimed in mock offense and her embarrassment disappeared. 

“You know, I’m hearing an awful lot of sass and not nearly enough unbuckling.” 

Varric chuckled and made quick work of the buckles and straps holding Hawke’s leather armor in place. The plain cloth tunic underneath was loose enough not to be a hindrance and he settled his hands on the small of her back.

 

Varric’s hands made light contact at first, accommodating her to his touch. He started at the small of her back, a place where his hand had rested on a daily basis since their initial meeting. Hawke knew he did it for the sake of familiarity and she appreciated the gesture, but no amount of acclimation would make this less trying for her. 

Hawke had found herself seeking out the comforts of his touch more often, ever since that kiss had wrecked the carefully constructed wall she built between herself and her attraction to Varric. He had made it explicitly clear he was madly in love with his crossbow stand-in for whomever he was _actually_ in love with, so Hawke took what she could get and tried to be satisfied (and maybe made a few more trips to the Blooming Rose). It was just her luck, really, that she would develop an attraction to her best friend—it wasn’t a crush, absolutely not. She wasn’t seriously considering anything more than unrequited lust, and that stupid kiss had forced it to the forefront of her mind. But if she flirted with everyone then she could convince herself she wasn’t actually attracted to anyone in particular—especially not Varric. That’s what she tried to tell herself, at any rate. 

She believed it less when he applied pressure with his thumbs on either side of her neck, sinking into her stiff muscles. Her head dipped forward and a soft, “Ah,” escaped her lips. The pressure eased and his fingers brushed the back of her neck, sending a shiver down her spine. 

“Did that hurt?” 

“No, it’s good.” She wished _she_ was good. 

His hands continued smoothly after that. Languid strokes on either side of her spine before he reached her injured shoulder. The pain was immediate, but the hiss she let out was one of pleasure. His fingers found the knots that had formed and began working through each. Slow, hard strokes followed by lighter, smoothing ones until the knots released, one by one. 

When he finished working through the knots in her injured shoulder, he used the heels of his hands to slowly make his way back down her spine. There was stiffness in her sides and around her hips that she wasn’t even aware of until it disappeared. He continued finding pockets of rigid muscles and working them out. Her entire right side was an overworked mess from providing the majority of her powerful dagger strikes. Varric lifted her right arm to wrap his under it and then up, bringing his hand to rest on the back of her neck. His other hand came up to rub at the knots around her shoulder blade. The pose was one she’d used in battle to hold enemies before throwing them to the ground, but now it was almost intimate and she had to focus on decidedly _not_ being turned on. 

Varric let up on her shoulder and she moved to stand, but his hands pushed her back down to resume their work. 

“Sit down, Hawke,” he soothed. “You’re so tense you’re giving Aveline a run for her money.” 

“My shoulder’s good now, Varric,” she said in an overly bright voice. “And I am eternally grateful. Now—” 

“Niamh,” he said, and his tone is uncompromising. “Sit down and relax for five minutes.” 

Hawke huffed in response and told herself she would definitely _not_ enjoy this as much as she wanted to, but Varric’s hands were more skilled than she would ever have guessed. She found herself humming approval whenever he fund another tense spot and leaning in to meet each stroke of his fingers. The fabric of her shirt kept bunching just above where it tucked into her pants, forcing Varric to constantly readjust it. After an annoyed click of his tongue, Hawke felt the shirt tug loose and the small of her back was exposed to the air. Varric’s hands continued unhindered, and the sudden heat of them was enough to make her inhale sharply with the sudden throb of arousal. And he _chuckled_. If she could find the motivation to get up she’d throw something at him, but she couldn’t so she sat there, drowsy and malleable in his hands.

“See?” He said softly in her ear. “Relaxing once in a while will do you some good.” 

Vaguely, she wondered if Varric was aware of what he was doing and decided that she didn’t care. If he didn’t know then she might as well take advantage and indulge herself for once. If he _did_ …well, that would be interesting. And certainly wouldn’t help with the crush that she definitely _did not_ have. 

“You might have a point,” she mumbled sleepily. 

Varric made a sound of approval and she could practically hear the cocky arch of his eyebrow. She felt him shift and move around the chair where she sat limply. His hand never broke contact, letting her know he wasn’t done yet. Her eyes opened slowly to see him kneeling on the floor in front of her as he took her hand and massaged it, too. Deep strokes in the middle of her palm sent shivers of pleasure up her arms; small circles down her fingers and knuckles. 

She watched him work and he must have felt her gaze because he looked up to meet it. Suddenly this was overwhelming and her heart pounded in her ears. The wall she’d kept in place between her stupid feelings and her mouth cracked while she was distracted by his hands. Still, she couldn’t summon the desire to stop him before she had the opportunity to mess things up. A slow grin spread across her face before she could help herself, and when he returned it there was a swelling in her chest.  

_Niamh, honey, you’ve got it bad_ , she thought. 

_Shit_. 

Varric stood and brushed her bangs aside. When his fingers began rubbing her scalp, she tilted her head forward to allow him easier access. His hands cupped her jaw, allowing the pads of his fingers to press firmly at the base of her skull and making her whole head tingle pleasantly. After a few minutes of the luxury, he ran his hand through her choppy hair, smoothing it down after he had messed it into a state somehow worse than normal. 

“All done.” 

“Mm,” she hummed. “Thank you.” 

“Just do me a favor and try not to run headlong into any reavers from now on,” he said, still playing with a strand of her hair. She couldn’t find the motivation to move yet, but he didn’t appear to be in a rush either. 

“If I promise does that mean you won’t be offering massages anymore?” Flirting had always been the easiest way to diffuse her attraction to him, and it left her mouth before she could think it through. Was that too far? Too weird for just-friends to ask? 

He paused long enough to convince her that she screwed up, crossed the unsteady line between them. She felt vulnerable, _raw_. Her mind was a jumble and she couldn’t gather her thoughts quickly enough to fix it. 

“Messere,” Varric said in the light voice he saved especially for their banter. The tone was pure jest, but the words were honest. He took hold of her hand again, and bent at the waist before her dazed mind could catch up. “I’m at your service.” Then his lips met the back of her hand and his eyes flickered up to hers. 

Hawke’s brain threw in the towel. Her face grew so hot there could be no denying that she was blushing like a lay sister. And judging by Varric’s smirk, he knew _exactly_ what he was doing.    


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric helps Hawke through her mother's death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry for the delay. The end of my semester was a nightmare, and I'm still busy trying to find an internship to finish my degree so updates will be sporadic. 
> 
> This chapter still needs a fine-tooth comb, but I'm sick of looking at it so please excuse the mistakes and inconsistent tense.

Hawke returned home one evening to find white lilies instead of her mother.

Somewhere else—a different time, a different world—a different Hawke pursues the investigation of the missing women. She takes Emeric’s concerns seriously instead of making what just be her most insensitive joke yet—a pathetic attempt at keeping herself from actively thinking about the horrors those women faced. She gets there in time to save Leandra, before Quentin can mutilate and reassemble her into a twisted monstrosity. 

This was not that Hawke. 

This Hawke watched the actual turn of events from somewhere above her body with numb disbelief. Her head spun, unable—or unwilling—to process what unfolded before her. As hard as she tried, she could not deny what had become the defining feature of her life: she was always too slow, too weak, too late. 

When Varric’s bolt killed Gaspard (why did she let him live? _why?_ ) she was finally jolted back into reality. They killed Quentin and the demons created in the wake of the other dead women. It still wasn’t enough. 

Hawke cracked a joke, hating herself for it, and Leandra smiled one last time before dying in her daughter’s arms. She asked Anders to burn the body and hoped that the Fereldan custom would appease the other women. 

Faceless acquaintances paid their respects in mute horror, but Hawke barely noticed until Varric stood at the door to her room, hesitant at the thought of what this could entail. Surprise didn’t quite describe what she felt to see him there. She expected him to drop by, yes, but only to offer quick condolences and run, leaving her to her grief until she pulled herself back together in a week. They were both _terrible_ at this. Her own ineptitude following Bartrand’s death should have been enough to keep him away, but there he was, crossing the room and sitting next to her. His weight sunk into the mattress and tilted her body toward him. They weren’t close enough to touch, though part of her desperately wanted to lean into him so someone else could carry her weight for just a little while. 

Hawke didn’t know how to express grief, she’d never learned. There hadn’t been time to mourn with the rest of her family when her father died because she’d thrown herself into her promise to him. And while protecting her family left her no time to waste on tears, she’d had time enough to start drinking and found that worked well enough. 

Carrying on for her family had become her own means of coping. She had urged Mother and Bethany through the Blightlands away from Carver’s broken body, pushing them every inch of the way to Kirkwall. Even upon reaching the city she had been so busy paying off their servitude and keeping food on the table that she was almost able to forget that she’d had a brother in the first place. The closest she’d come to actual grief had been Bethany’s forced entry into the Grey Wardens, but she had been unable to put that on Varric so early in their friendship, so she’d choked it down and carried on. Now…there was no one left to rely on her. No one to pull through her mother’s death but herself, and she had never pulled herself through anything except a long series of hangovers. Dealing with things by _not_ dealing with them had become automatic. Every drunken stupor and out-of-body experience was another wall between her and all the shit that was simply too much to process. 

“They’ve all gone?” For the first time in a _long_ time she felt like she needed to cry. There was an insistent burning behind her eyes, like the accumulation of every tear she had bit back since the first hardship in her life up until now, but she still had time to direct Varric out and away before they fell. 

“Yeah.” It was the most somber she’d seen him since Bartrand’s death. “I led them all out myself. Sent Bodahn and Orana to bed.” 

“Thanks.” 

“Of course.” He gave an empty shrug, letting his elbow brush hers. 

As much as she wanted to lean into it, to take her comfort from someone who would offer it freely, she didn’t. As close as she’d come over the years, she still couldn’t let herself fall apart in front of him. She already felt like enough of a sham of the hero he portrayed in his stories. That daring woman was a stranger to her, a Hawke from another world who always got there in time and saved the day—she wasn’t that Hawke and never would be. 

Perhaps in spite their own difficult relationship, Leandra had become a kind of surrogate mother to Hawke’s crew of misfits. She helped Aveline pick out a wedding gown; taught Merrill to crochet; helped Anders fix his mother’s pillow; took over reading lessons with Fenris on days when Hawke was out; visited Sebastian in the Chantry to pray; fussed over Isabela in a way the woman had never been by her own mother. She had invited Varric over for countless dinners, especially after Bartrand’s death, and was another one of his adoring fans (her first meeting with Varric had been the first time Hawke had seen her mother so flustered). Leandra threw a Satanalia party every year at the estate, making sure that every one of her friends ate their fill and got a gift. 

Somehow in the wake of one dead child and another forced into a life of battle, Hawke and Leandra had begun to rebuild their relationship. Less arguments, less nagging, less pressure put unfairly on her eldest child, who had already taken on the weight of an entire city. And then Leandra had died closer to her daughter’s friends than Hawke herself. Some grand entity somewhere was laughing at her and the disaster that was her life.

_Stop it, Niamh._  

Hawke held out a hand without meaning to. Before she could even think of retracting it Varric had grabbed hold. It made it much harder to convince herself that it was best for him to leave when her hand was firmly grasped in his. Even the most warped and twisted humor she was capable of wasn’t enough to stop the dark turn her thoughts had taken. 

Varric reached into his coat for a flask and passed it to her—whiskey. Ahh, he knew her so well. The first sip burned, spreading warmth and numbness through her chest. Like countless times before, they passed it back and forth until the last drop was gone. Varric put it away and took Hawke’s hand again, fingers tracing hers. When the tears couldn’t be held at bay any longer, Hawke let out a long shuddering breath and pulled her hand away from his. 

“Well, Varric,” she said in her everyday theatrical voice. It sounded pathetically exhausted even to her own ears. “It’s about that time.”

He quirked an eyebrow at her tone; it was usually reserved for the everyday schmucks she ran into, never him, and she felt bad using it now. His hands were held out to her as if they didn’t know what to do without hers in them. 

“I know how you hate to see humans cry, so you should really get going before you’re forced to watch me lose it.” Ah, shit. Her nose and eyes burned with tears just waiting to fall. She turned away from him, back stiff in hopes that the tension would help her control herself until Varric left, but Maker she couldn’t bite them back much longer. 

He chuckled, or perhaps it was a scoff. “You owe me, Hawke. You’ve seen mine, now show me yours.” 

“What?” Her head snapped around to look at him in surprise. He should be running for the hills by now. No matter how close they had grown over the years they didn’t cross this line. Bartrand’s death had been an exception and would never have happened in the first place if not for the brawl leaving them both bloodied. They would have drank until they forgot who Bartrand ever was and that would have been that. What was he _doing?_  

“You watched me become a blubbering mess, now it’s my turn. But don’t worry, I’ll be sure to remember them as the most beautiful tears ever shed.” 

Disbelief must be etched in her face, but the first tear spilled over and Varric brushed it away with a gentle, pained smile. 

“Go on, then,” he said softly, thumb tracing her trembling lip. 

That was all the floodgates needed to burst forth. The empathy etched in the lines on his face, mourning in its own right, was enough to tip her over the edge. She backed away at first, insisting even as her breath hitched that he leave and spend the night in better company. Varric heaved a sigh and reached for her, but she was already leaning forward to meet him, hands curling in the fabric of his tunic. 

Slow hiccupping gasps turned to body-wracking sobs as she went through motions unfamiliar to her. It felt like every tear she should have shed before; every time they packed up and left frantically in the middle of the night so the Templars wouldn’t catch them; watching her father’s slow wasting away from a broad force of nature into a shriveled imposter; witnessing the fall of the army of Ostagar and dragging her stupid, noble brother away from the horde, only to watch it beat him into the ground a week later; Lothering, which had truly felt like home, and its people in flames; the black veins creeping across Bethany’s lovely skin and her face contorted in pain; and now this. Every scrap of anguish from thirty years of life that she had worked or fought or drank away was rearing its ugly head. 

“You didn’t actually think I’d leave you alone tonight, did you?” 

“I didn’t want to bother you.” Even as she cried into his shoulder she couldn’t help a last effort to sound blasé. Her attempt at lightness failed spectacularly. 

“You’re never a bother, Niamh.” He sounded so honest it _hurt_. 

Between her sobbing and the emotional weight of his continued presence, no response came. Varric was probably as grateful as she was. 

The rest went much the same as the night Bartrand died. Hawke cried and Varric rocked her slowly, running his fingers through her hair. At odds with his normal talkativeness, he didn’t say a word. Where Varric’s anguish had begun with anger, Hawke only felt resignation in hers. Whatever anger she felt at the hand life had dealt her had passed a long time ago to make way for routine sorrow. Leandra’s murder signified her final failure to uphold her promise to her father. 

Her crying subsided after a time, and though it felt to Varric like forever, it was probably less than would be expected of one who had just lost her mother. He felt her weight lean heavily into him, heard the deepening of her breathing and settled her against the pillows. Sandor jumped up next to her, curling into the crook of her arm and resting his muzzle on her abdomen. Varric opted to sleep on the couch in her library; Bodahn would have enough to deal with in the coming days and didn’t need Varric messing up a guest room. 

He woke to the smell of coffee and Hawke’s sleep-mussed hair peeking over the seat cushions. His stirring made her turn from where she sat on the floor to face him. Dark circles beneath swollen, bloodshot eyes. She held out a cup of coffee and gave him the best estimation of her crooked smile. It was clumsy, her face still unable to pull itself together completely, but warmed him all the same. 

“Thanks, Varric.” 

He let his fingers brush hers as he took the mug, catching her soft smile at the contact.

“As someone I know recently said, what are friends for?” 

“Ooh.” Hawke winced through her laugh. “I don’t need you reminding me how cheesy that was.” 

Varric laughed with her and took a sip of his coffee, wondering when she learned how he liked it. Hawke shifted so that her side leaned against the couch instead of her back, propping herself up on her arm and facing Varric. 

“You don’t have to stay,” she said to the floor. 

“I know.” He couldn’t resist the urge to brush her hair back from her face. Testament to how not-weird this was for them, Hawke leaned into it. No odd looks, no discomfort. He almost wished it _were_ weird. 

For years there had been a voice in the back of his head that resisted every potential romantic entanglement with a firm _But Bianca_ …But Bianca and he were done, nothing more than two friends who had once been something more. She had her husband and was finally taking part in that marriage, rather than sneaking away to see Varric. And Varric had…what? Kirkwall, he supposed. And a Bianca-shaped void that rung hollow with all that could have been if they had both made different choices, _better_ choices. Looking now, though, it had changed. It had grown and filled in so gradually that he had barely noticed until one day it had taken on Hawke’s shape instead. Until Bianca’s name had faded away in favor of _Hawke_. Everything was Hawke; where she was, what she was up to, why she was looking at him, why she _wasn’t_ looking at him. Hawke, Hawke, _Hawke_. 

The revelation was less surprising to him than the fact that he hadn’t even realized it was happening. It was also a more attractive thought than he cared to admit. And that was why the good Maker created denial. 

“You really look like shit, Hawke.” 

He got a surprised bark of laughter and a none-too-gentle nudge in the ribs. “I made you coffee and this is how you repay me?” 

“A little breakfast wouldn’t hurt.” 

She nudged him again, less gently this time, but smiled into her mug. 

“If it’s any consolation, I _do_ have another idea to repay you.” 

“Do tell, ingrate friend of mine.” 

“I thought I could read my new serial to you. _Swords & Shields_,” Varric said casually. His hand twitched with the urge to rub his nose but he suppressed it at the last second. As usual Hawke noticed, but she played it off for his sake. 

“’ _Scabbards_ ’ was better,” she pouted. 

“You need _some_ degree of subtlety in this genre.” Hawke scoffed and he shot her a look. “And my editor is not a woman to be crossed, not even for _your_ favor.” 

She rolled her eyes, but they softened when they landed on his face again. “You’ll really read it to me?” 

“I will _really_ read it to you.” 

“I’d like that.” Her smile wasn’t at its full intensity yet, it wouldn’t be for a while, but it was genuine and he couldn’t help smiling right back.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke is enthralled by a desire demon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a darker take on a kink meme fill I came across years ago that I haven't been able to find since.
> 
> *Mild trigger warning for dub-con. I don't want to change the ratings on the whole story for this, but I will if anyone thinks this is too much, so please let me know.*

Hawke did occasionally wonder why Kirkwall attracted so much crazy. Somehow the desire demon in the sewers was both unexpected and wholly unsurprising. Alone it wasn’t an issue, but she could do without the shades popping up and preventing her from sinking her blades into its stupid face. She just wanted to find whatever hole the Coterie was hiding in so they could stop interfering with her Bone Pit shipments. (Horrible decision on her part, really. She was pretty annoyed that Varric hadn’t advised her against it. Or, at the very least, that he hadn’t hit her over the head when she ignored his advice.)

She managed to plant her daggers in a shade’s back and it fell to her feet in black shreds—revealing the desire demon waiting behind it. Hawke was still off-balance from her attack, leaving her unprepared when a clawed hand caressed her face and her vision faded to black. 

When she awoke she was on the damp ground of the sewer. She gained her feet with a groan and wondered where the rest of her party went off to, when a warm hand found the small of her back and she sighed with relief. 

“Oh good, Varric,” she said. “I was afraid I was stuck in the damned Fade or—” 

She turned and saw Varric, but _not_. Hawke’s vision swam in and out of focus, but even so she could tell that Varric’s eyes were the wrong shade of brown. A purple glow flickered with her vision, there one moment and gone the next. A predatory grin replaced his easy reassuring one, making the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. 

“Hawke,” Not-Varric said, voice echoing with something dangerous and wild. “There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you.” 

“You’re not Varric.” Her voice trembled, and the fear in it helped strengthen the illusion. 

“That’s ridiculous,” Not-Varric chuckled. His hand was still on her back, holding her in place and radiating an unnatural heat. His eyes shifted to the right shade of whiskey brown, and his voice lost the echo. Realization came that it was feeding off her memories and using them against her. 

There was a look in his eyes, hungry and wanting. She’d seen it before—directed at her even, on a few occasions—but it usually only made its appearance when he was well into his drinks and lost in thought (about the actual Bianca, Hawke suspected). To see it now, turned at her so unabashedly. . . she could feel her resolve crumbling. 

“You do so much for this city and its people.” The voice echoed from everywhere and nowhere, the sultry, feminine lilt of the desire demon overriding the cruel imitation of her friend. “And yet you deny yourself the one thing you want.” 

“Stop!” She was sure she meant to shout, but the voice that left her was breathy, needy. 

“You’ve earned this. Lay back… _Relax_.” Not-Varric’s smooth, graveled voice bled through once again, and this time it sent a shiver down her spine. 

Not-Varric’s hand moved to her hip, pushing her back, and the sewer faded to reveal Varric’s suite. Her clothes melted away and her knees hit the foot of the bed—she couldn’t remember when that got there— sending her onto her back. Even as it pulled at the back of her mind that she needed to stop this, she _couldn’t._ Worse—she wasn’t sure she wanted to. Every time she managed to gather her thoughts enough to resist, the illusion strengthened, she faltered, and then found herself less inclined to resist. The quirks of Not-Varric’s eyebrows adjusted; his smile lost the predatory quality; the smell of him filled her nose— leather and vellum and sandalwood clouding her mind. This demon had found the one thing that could lead her astray and trapped her effortlessly with it. She would have made a truly terrible mage. 

Varric—just Varric now, her mind no longer concerned with the difference—was on top of her. Some traitorous part of her brain cried _Finally!_ and apparently that was the extent of her consent, because his cock slid into her and any other thoughts were wiped from her mind. 

It must have been taken straight out of her late night fantasies, alone with nothing but her hand and thoughts of Varric: his eyes gazing at her with that mischievous glint; his low, graveled voice in her ear; his hand on her hip and trailing lower. He started out slow at first, teasing. His fingers dug into her hips, forcing her to follow whatever pace he set. She tried to move faster but he just pressed his weight down and kept her in place. She wanted to scream in frustration and pleasure and _helplessness_. The heat filling her was unnatural, _scalding_. She tried to cry for it to stop but the only words that made it past her lips were pleas for _more_ and _faster_ and his name, filling in every pause between his thrusts and her begging. 

Malcolm would have been ashamed. 

Varric leaned down to meet her lips, stubble deliciously rough against her cheeks, and fucked her harder into the mattress. Now his eyes had taken on the purple hue again, a sadistic laughter held in their unnatural depths, but she was too far gone to even attempt resisting. She wanted this but _didn’t_ , wanted him more than she could admit to even herself, but not like this. As overpowered by the illusion as she was, there was nothing she could do but surrender to her rapidly approaching climax. 

“Hawke,” he cried between thrusts. “Oh, Hawke!” 

She was close. 

“Hawke!” 

She was so close. 

“ _Hawke!_ ” His voice was decidedly less sexy and honestly a bit alarming. “Come on, open your damn eyes!”

She did and found him staring down at her, fully clothed and concern written in the lines on his face. 

“Varric.” Her voice wasn’t breathy, thank the Maker, but it _was_ out of breath (and if there was something needy in it she hoped he didn’t notice). Her orgasm had just begun to crest and being ripped out so suddenly left her empty and frustrated, but also relieved. Something resembling her father’s voice told her that succumbing to the desire demon’s illusion any further would have been disastrous. 

“Maker’s balls, Hawke. . .” He sunk back on his heels with a groan of relief that was far too similar to the moans Not-Varric had been making in her ear just moments ago. She tried to ignore the shiver that ran down her spine. “I looked away for two seconds and when I turned back there you were on the ground with that demon looming over you. I thought you’d snap out of it when we killed her but you—you were still twitching in pain or something. You wouldn’t wake up.” His last words were tinged with helplessness and worry that he wouldn’t even try to hide. She’d reassure him if she weren’t so shaken herself. 

She slowly sat up, hoping she wasn’t as flushed as she felt. Varric stood, offering his hand to help her up and Hawke accepted, grateful that he wore gloves. Fenris stood off to the side cleaning his sword and shooting her impatient looks while Isabela adjusted her scarf. Well, if Isabela wasn’t making remarks then her writhing on the ground couldn’t have been _too_ lewd. 

Varric’s hand found her back and a hot wave of arousal shot through her body, nearly buckling her legs.

“You, ah, sure you’re all right?” Varric’s voice was still full of concern as his other hand came to steady her arm. 

“Yep!” Hawke chirped out too cheerfully, stepping away from his touch. “Never better!” 

“Let’s go find us some Coterie then.” He gave her one last odd look before they continued into the sewers. 

The moment they all parted for the day, Hawke beelined for the Blooming Rose. She felt violated, but she was more upset with the feelings she had been forced to face. Her biggest desire had been laid bare before her, making it impossible to continue her denial of it. Violation aside, she couldn’t help the arousal thrumming between her legs. Since it showed no signs of abating anytime soon and Varric showed no signs of taking her to bed, she had little choice but to find someone to help her take care of it. For a moment she had debated going to Isabela, but that woman was far too perceptive and Hawke was too emotionally vulnerable to risk another confrontation about her feelings. 

Denier was free, thank the bloody Maker, and she paid for the entire night instead of the usual few hours. And though she tried, she couldn’t keep Varric’s name from reaching her lips. When she apologized, Denier made it his business to tear it from her lips as many times as possible, teasing and tormenting her until _Varric_ was the only intelligible thought she had left.


	11. I Told You So

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We interrupt your regularly scheduled UST for some action and angst.

The last thing Varric wanted to say to Hawke was _I told you so_ , no matter how grand the opportunity may have been. 

The trademark smear of blood across Hawke’s nose was an accident. A night spent clearing thugs off the street led to one poor bastard’s severed jugular spraying her in the face. None the wiser, Hawke had turned to the next victim, who screamed and fled upon seeing her. She caught him with little effort, but her scrunched nose meant she had no idea what she looked like to everyone else.

“I know I’m no looker, but that was just rude,” she chuckled. “I bathed this morning and everything.”

 “I think it’s the blood smeared across your face like war paint that drove him off,” Varric said dryly. 

Hawke’s mouth quirked to the side as she very briefly considered wiping it away. Mid-motion, her hand changed course from her face to her hip and she straightened her back in a display of cockiness. “Perhaps this shall be my new strategy. Wearing the blood of my enemies to scare the piss out of my other enemies.” 

Snarling, she hunched her back and turned to Merrill with a growl. To her credit, the mage made a good show of pretending to be scared before breaking into a fit of giggling. Aveline rolled her eyes and made a noise of disgust, which only served to heighten Hawke’s glee. 

“Don’t get me wrong, I love the dramatic flair,” Varric said. “But that’ll bite you in the ass someday.” 

“Oh, please,” she scoffed, waving a hand in dismissal. 

“Well, when you end up fueling some bastard’s blood rage instead of scaring him, don’t come crying to me.” 

It didn’t bring him any joy now to find his warning justified.

 

***

 

The taste of ash and the smell of burning flesh is overwhelming. Hawke forces herself not to see the mutilated bodies in the streets; the one Lowtown shopkeeper who hadn’t turned her away upon learning she was Ferelden; the beggar child she had given a sovereign to just days before; one of Varric’s contacts. Judging by his sharp inhale, Varric had seen the body, too. 

“They’re burning our city, Hawke,” Varric says. Instinctively she knows he must be right behind her—he always is—but sounds are starting to distort and she’s having a hard time telling them apart. At the very least, it’s harder to hear the screaming. 

She tries to respond but it comes out as only a choked whisper, so she stops trying. 

And Bethany. Whatever Hawke’s capacity had been to deal with this mess, it was obliterated upon seeing her sister for the first time in years. Her sweet sister, always ready with a smile and a kind word, was bitter and angry with _her_. And then she and the other Wardens had just left, turning their backs on the flames and death without so much as a second glance. It’s enough to distract her for the entire journey through debris and corpses and more fucking Qunari than could possibly have fit in that compound on the docks. If not for Varric nudging her along she might have been killed, idly walking through the flaming streets into the spear of one of the horned invaders. Part of her wishes he were a bit less attentive, though—the thought of being skewered was beginning to sound more appealing than the long trek to the Keep. 

Bethany’s uncaring departure even distracts her from the impact of finally meeting Meredith, and the implications of now owing her life to the Knight-Commander. Hawke is left to make whatever jokes her mind can automatically conjure, for better or worse. She can’t tell if Meredith’s face is simply that displeased by nature. 

Hawke should have seen this as the only possible outcome. The city was on fire and bodies were piling up. Logically, fighting the Arishok was the only way this could play out. 

She walks into the throne room in a daze, but confident that her easy grin is plastered in place; it’s had a lot of practice these last few years. The nobles are gathered—those that still live—and the Arishok throws Viscount Dumar’s severed head at her feet. Another hefty dose of detachment and humor will keep her mind safe for now. If she survives she can worry about dealing with the aftermath. 

When Isabela saunters through the doors with the Tome in hand, Hawke takes her first easy breath in hours. And though the pirate’s smirk can hide a great deal, it can’t quite cover the guilt in her eyes—but Hawke forgave her the moment she showed up unharmed.

The Arishok declares her some Qunari title of respect, despite a year spent patronizing him at every opportunity. Of course she’ll duel him for Isabela. She’d climb aboard their ship back to Par Vollen and risk not escaping if it would keep Isabela safe. Father, Carver, _Mother_ …she was done letting her family meet early graves because of her. This group of assholes was all the family she had left, and she would protect it within every last inch of her life. 

The Arishok waits in the middle of the room while she prepares herself on the side. There’s no need for her bag or the numerous pouches she insists on stuffing with useless crap—Varric was right about her being a magpie. Stupid thoughts about the feathers and scarves she’s picked up are easier to deal with than the prospect of fighting the Arishok in single combat to save the city and Isabela. Mostly Isabela. 

A quick survey of her companions doesn’t bolster her confidence. Isabela’s face is pinched in a way that is shockingly unlike her, eyes watery and mouth thin. Hawke says something—she couldn’t repeat it if asked—and the tension in the pirate’s body eases marginally. Anders looks helpless with the knowledge that he will be unable to interfere should things go wrong (and with what her life has been thus far, things _will_ go wrong). Fenris’s face betrays nothing, as expected. She wonders if he regrets suggesting the duel. 

And Varric, well, she’s not sure she’s seen him this worried before. It isn’t even the furrowing between his eyebrows—it’s how decidedly _not_ worried he’s trying to look. As if he’s afraid to let her know just how little confidence he has in her chances. There’s an urge to ease his anxiety even as she fights her own; a word, a gesture, _anything_ to smooth the lines in his face. 

Varric forces his belt of potions and stamina draughts into her chest. It’s much fuller than her own, taken up by all those junk pouches she insisted on. His hands shake, causing the glass bottles to clink together. 

“Take this,” he says tightly.

“What?” Her laugh is wooden, and so unlike the blasé one she had been shooting for. “Not confident in my chances?” 

“ _Hawke_ , he’s three times your size.” 

“Oh, pish. He’s gotta be slow if he’s that big. I’ll just whittle him down. Save the city, get the girl, you know. Hero stuff.” 

He doesn’t look any less worried. 

“What the worst that could happen?” 

“I hate it when you say that.” It’s a desperate whisper, nothing like the exasperated sigh she had been hoping for. 

“Come on, Varric. I thought it wasn’t a good story unless the hero died.” That had seemed less serious in her head. Saying it out loud causes reality to start setting back in and hits her like a maul to the sternum. Her grin falters with the sudden shortness of breath and Varric sees. Of course he does. 

“Please, Hawke,” he says, holding her arm in a death grip. “ _Please_ be careful.” 

Hawke and Sandor stand across from the Arishok; she can’t remember getting here. The confusion is enough to make her turn to Varric—where she always looks when she feels lost. From the look in his eyes he knows what she’s experiencing, and the worry he had been trying so hard to hide is now clear as day. Oh no, she can’t see that look on his face. She cocks her head and tosses him a wink, relieved in finally eliciting that exasperated sigh. Good, annoyed was much better than worried. He even rolls his eyes at her. More importantly, he isn’t as tense and Hawke can return to the matter at hand. 

Hawke had always been taller than most people she ran into, surpassed on a regular basis only by Father, Carver, and Aveline (when the former two still lived). A gangly kind of tall that somehow didn’t impede her speed. She has never felt as small as she does now standing in front of the Arishok. He is _massive_. Hulking and broad and…and… _shit_. 

“All right,” she says, smirk in place. “Let’s dance.” 

The words barely leave her mouth when the Arishok throws himself into a crouch and _charges_ at a full on sprint. Hawke rolls out of the way easily, but anxiety and—oh yes, there it is— _fear_ make her stumble. For a fraction of a second she meets Varric’s eyes and sees the panic return. Well, shit. 

The Arishok rushes her again, thankfully not as pants-shittingly fast as the first time, and she tumbles to the side. He turns to meet her blades, only to find nothing there. Another roll to the side and she’s in his blind spot. Her dagger finds its mark, slicing into his side before he can react and she leaps away again. Sandor distracts him and another blade finds a home in the Arishok’s ribs. Three quick stabs while he winds up for another attack, two more and a sidestep before he brings the axe down. There’s a brief, stupid thought that maybe this won’t be so bad after all—when the Arishok’s knee connects with her hip. She goes down _hard_ , hitting the floor and rolling. Her arm shoots out, trailing the floor and allowing her to right herself with a controlled roll. On her feet again, Hawke eases her posture and casually shifts her weight from foot to foot. At some point in her collision with the floor she knocked her ankle. It’s going to be a problem, but she grins through it.

 

*** 

 

Varric had done what he could to give in to Hawke’s attempts to make him less anxious for her own benefit, but nothing can slow his heart or dry the sweat beading at his temples. Hawke had survived more than her fair share of impossible situations with no more than a scratch, but this was an entirely different beast. Just thinking of every event that had brought them to this moment was making his head spin.

She should never have accepted the duel. The way she fought required distractions, openings for her blades to sink into the most vulnerable places. Her only hope—that the Arishok’s monstrous size meant he’d be slow—had already been dashed. 

He watches the miscalculation that allows the Arishok to send her off-balance. The sound of Hawke’s body hitting the floor is _loud_. And despite her effortless recovery Varric can tell her ankle was hurt in the fall. Some comfort comes knowing that the Arishok can’t possibly have noticed—it’s all Varric’s own private knowledge of her. But the sheer _speed_ in such a huge body is unbelievable. Varric deliberately unclenches his fists, hands already cramped from just a few moments of the fight.

 

*** 

 

Hawke takes a moment to survey the room. The Arishok is in no rush and neither are the two dozen Qunari surrounding the room’s occupants. The nobles have been herded to the upper level, where the Viscount’s throne will sit empty for a while. They watch from the railings, some crying, some in shock—the Reinhardt boy is crumpled on the floor, though she can’t tell from here if he’s dead or just fainted. Probably fainted. 

Seneschal Bran stood flanked by three of the gray giants. As always, his face is impassive bordering on bored, but his white-knuckled grip on the railing betrays his fear. He stands just above her and she can’t pass up the opportunity to heckle him, if only to ease her own anxiety. 

“Nervous, Bran?” Her grin is crooked and cocky enough to elicit an annoyed twitch of the man’s brow. 

“Why don’t you focus on what’s in front of you before bothering me?” He says through gritted teeth. It’s as close to a snarl as she’s ever gotten from him and the satisfaction is immediate. 

She lets out a dramatic sigh. “If you insist.” 

The tension locking her joints fades. A habitual twirl of her blades and a low click of her tongue to signal Sandor and they’re on the move again. Feints within feints are the only way she can get close enough to the Arishok, but it’s going to exhaust her quickly. Her blades nick him several times without effect. The Arishok is _fast_ and it’s all she can do to keep out of range, even with her own speed. Too many near-misses had left her with more cuts than she could brush off as anything other than luck—though whether it was her own or the Arishok’s she still wasn’t sure. A clean slice through his ribs makes triumph swell behind her own, until he downs a potion and all her hard work of the last fifteen minutes is nullified. He’s back at full strength and shows no sign of slowing while she’s panting, trying to manage what is turning into a debilitating limp. Hawke may have built herself for battle, but the Arishok was born into it—and she had no idea how to defeat that. 

She takes the first stamina draught. 

Square one. Right. She and Sandor go opposite ways. The Arishok follows her—and kicks behind him brutally, connecting with Sandor and sending the mabari flying with a whimper. Hawke sees red and launches into a flurry of strikes to keep the hulking bastard from _killing her dog_. Having predicted this, the Arishok turns on his heel and adjusts the grip on his axe to aim at her torso. A mid-air twist born purely of adrenaline and luck is the only thing that saves her life. The axe misses but she is struck by his fist, still grasping the pommel. The blow winds her, keeping her from regaining her feet right away. She crawls the few feet to Sandor and commands him to go to Varric. He almost doesn’t move, but her firm repetition sends him away. Anders immediately tends to what appears to be a broken rib. Without Sandor by her side she feels less sure of herself, but now she’s pissed and that’s almost as good. Pulling the cork out with her teeth, the second stamina draught goes down.

Hawke rushes straight at the Arishok. His blades are inches from her when she throws down a handful of powder and fades into stealth. When it settles, she’s gone and his blades are embedded in the floor. A few seconds is all she’ll have to do what she can, so she digs into every reserve of energy she has to slash, stab, slice, _anything_. She can’t reach his exposed chest from behind, but manages several strikes between the back of his ribs before he abandons his axe and throws her off. This time she somersaults before hitting the ground, landing properly on her feet. Axe free at last, the Arishok stares her down. 

 

***

 

In a display of cockiness only Hawke would attempt, Varric watches with dawning horror as she drags her thumb down the flat of her blade through the Arishok’s blood. Varric wants to shout, to stop her before she does it, but there’s never any stopping Hawke. 

Without breaking her eyes away from the Arishok’s, she drags her thumb across the bridge of her nose and grins ferally.

 

_The reaver and Hawke square off. She takes a dab of blood from her blade and draws it over her nose with her thumb. Where it had driven off the rest of the raiders, the reaver does not give in to the intimidation. He launches into a full-on sprint that catches Hawke off guard. She dodges at the last second but her side is grazed in the process. A well-placed bolt brings the man down and Varric rushes to her side. She’s breathing heavily, more from surprise than pain. Varric offers a hand and she takes it, letting him pull her up._

_"Don’t say it,” she grumbles._

_“Say what?” His voice is lighter than he feels. Watching Hawke flirt with death time and time again must have shaved a dozen years off his life by now. He has to keep talking to drown out the furious pounding of his heart in his ears. “Oh! You mean_ I told you so _? I’m fairly certain I_ did _tell you so_. _”_

 _“Hey, he was crazy. Not my fault for reading the room wrong.”_

_“Taunting a_ reaver _with_ blood _. Yeah, simple mistake.” Varric masks his worry with irritation and holds a cloth to Hawke’s side to staunch the bleeding. She tries to wave him off to tend the wound herself, but he refuses to move away. If he doesn’t keep his hands occupied his careful annoyance will turn to agitated concern, and Hawke would notice that. “One day you’re going to piss off the wrong person and you won’t walk away with just a scratch.”_

_“This was a fluke, Varric,” Hawke huffs. “Relax.”_

 

There’s a subtle shift in the Arishok’s posture. Hawke doesn’t see it, occupied as she is with her own posturing. Her cockiness only calms the Arishok more, focusing him, so when he launches headlong into another sprint she isn’t ready. For a brief moment, Varric sees that reaver charging headlong at her again and his heart lodges itself somewhere in his throat. 

It happens so fast that Hawke can’t even get a defensive arm up in time. She’s thrown back into the wall and the crack of her skull against the stone sends a horrified gasp through the nobles. A terrified voice screams her name, and it isn’t until the third repetition that Varric realizes it’s _him_. He had taken a step forward as if to pick her up like he normally did, but Fenris held him with a firm hand on his shoulder, gauntlets digging in to hold his attention. 

“They’ll kill her,” is all he says. 

In the pauses between the lurches of his stomach, Varric thinks that she will probably die anyway and has to ball his hands into fists to keep from reaching for Bianca. Even as he seriously comes to believe that he is about to watch his best friend die right before his eyes, the author in him is still scribbling away furiously. It makes him sick. 

The Arishok doesn’t betray anything, but he is _very_ angry. It’s clear in every slow, measured breath and the clenching of his fists around the hilts of his weapons. Insulted by Hawke’s taunting he drags it out. Still overcome by the blow to her head, Hawke can’t escape when he grabs her by the front of her armor and tosses her across the room again. She only comes to a stop when her limp body rolls into the opposite wall. The Arishok doesn’t pursue, taking a health potion and completely undoing her last successful attack. Hawke tries to get up but is still too dazed to regain coordination.

 

*** 

 

“Get up,” Bran hisses from somewhere above her. “Get up and _fight_.” 

Everything hurts. Her vision is a swimming, unfocused haze. The blow to the back of her head really did a number. She thinks with some humor that she shouldn’t have gotten out of bed today. 

Bran comes into focus, face tight. If Hawke wasn’t in so much pain she’d laugh at the expression on his face. Her knees support her this time when she tries to rise. When she’s on her feet again, she can’t remember the process of lifting herself. 

“Unless you’re going to come down and take over, Bran, _shut up_.” She tosses him a glare for good measure and he flinches. 

Hawke downs a health potion, followed by her third stamina draught. She feels her body strengthen with a fresh pulse of adrenaline coursing through her veins, dizziness abating. Two stamina draughts are the most she’s ever taken in a single day and they had kept her up for three nights. She can tell that three will still not be enough. 

Future-Hawke’s problem. Current-Hawke’s problem is still standing. 

A spin of her daggers and she disappears into the shadows again. The Arishok tracks her, but can’t react in time when her feint puts her behind him. A stab beneath his shoulder blade rips a snarl from him. He turns on her, teeth bared and sword aimed for her neck. She ducks into a crouch and uses the opening left by his attack to slash at his abdomen. It isn’t deep but it can’t be pleasant. Another successful feint and she gets the back of his knee, which brings him down onto his good one. Her lips tug to the side of their own accord as she attempts another attack while he’s down. 

The Arishok’s arm shoots out, tripping her. In one smooth motion he stands and grabs Hawke by her neck with one hand while taking a health potion with the other. The sudden inability to breathe distracts her from his next move.

 

***

 

Varric would later swear his heart actually stopped when Hawke was effortlessly lifted into the air by her throat, though he knows that’s not possible. Her gasping attempts to bring air into her lungs have _him_ breathless with fear. Some horrible part of his mind tells him that this is it, the Arishok is too strong for Hawke to free herself. He could bore his clawed fingers into her eyes, slit her throat, or simply continue down the route of strangulation. He can conjure up a thousand words to describe the fight, but he can’t think of any way for her to survive. 

Hawke’s legs kick out desperately, nails clawing at the Arishok’s hand and arm. There’s a brief attempt to reach his face but his arm is much longer than her own and she gives up immediately. Weak with lack of air, her attempts to get free fade; her legs stop kicking and her hands fall limp. He watches her eyes roll back. This is it. He’s watching the final moments of Hawke’s life. 

The Arishok’s grip lets up enough for Hawke to draw in a breath. His free hand raises with a single finger outstretched—Varric thinks this must be when he claws out Hawke’s beautiful brown eyes before she can ever look at him again. 

But no, the Arishok doesn’t claw out her eyes. He digs his nail into her cheek where the smudge of his own blood begins and tears through her skin. A deep slash over the bridge of her nose from cheekbone to cheekbone. The gush of blood is immediate, thick rivulets down her cheeks into her gaping mouth and down her chin. With her attempts to breathe she doesn’t even seem to notice. Then he tosses her like a rag doll. 

She curls into a ball, body wracked by gasping coughs. 

“You dare mock me, human?” A growl laced with insult. Only Hawke could piss off someone so dedicated to the Qun. “You will fall, then this city will fall. The Qun will bring order to this chaos.”

 

*** 

 

She’s finally breathing in some semblance of normality but her throat is on fire and her face is numb. The taste of copper fills her mouth. Every inch of her throbs. She quaffs another health potion. Exhaustion runs too deep for her to keep her feet, and the fourth stamina draught passes her lips. Consequences be damned, it’s looking less likely that she will be the one to walk away from this. Within seconds her whole body feels like a jittery mess, muscles twitching with inaction. Maybe if she can keep the Arishok occupied during her death the others can take him by surprise. 

She doesn’t even care about the city anymore, she just wants to lie down. 

Well, if she’s going to die she might as well get to it. As her legs propel her toward him again—likely the final time—she avoids looking at the crowd or her friends. Her head fills with the images of her parents and Carver, and she thinks that she’s ready to see them again. That would leave Bethany on her own, but Bethany didn’t want her anymore, anyway. 

Her blade finds the Arishok’s potion belt and severs it, causing the remaining bottles to fall and shatter. The momentary thrill of victory ends when the Arishok’s sword impales her straight through her gut and _lifts_ her into the air. The pain is immediate and overwhelming in its intensity. She slides further onto the blade, her own weight working for him. Blood is everywhere, staining the floor so fast it looks as if a faucet has been opened. Everything below her chest is wet and red and agony.

 _Oh Maker, please let it stop_. 

Splatters of blood fall and land on the Arishok’s face, and even in his clear victory he shows no signs of triumph, only grim determination. For whatever reason that seems worse than having her loss rubbed in her face. She’s just another item on the checklist of destroying her city, her _home_. 

The surge of anger is surprising, but it should be sufficient for what she needs to do. She uses the Arishok’s arm to pull herself further down his blade. The shock of being _fucking impaled_ had caused her to lose her grip on one dagger, but she still has the other. She has to fight her rapidly weakening grip and the excruciating pain that comes with tensing the last few muscles functioning in her abdomen to throw her remaining dagger. 

The Arishok loses an eye. His roar of pain is a sound she will cherish for the few moments left before she meets her end. There’s another hidden blade in her gauntlet and a snap of her wrist sends it into the Arishok’s neck. The spray of blood means she hit his jugular as she intended, and from such an intimate distance how could she miss? Unable to hold her up any longer, his arm buckles and she lurches to the side. He doesn’t relinquish his hold on the sword so her body slides off the blade and rolls. An animal-like scream is muffled by the blood pounding in her ears (how can there be enough left to pound in her ears? she's sure that most of her blood is on the floor) and she vaguely realizes the scream is her own. Blind instinct forces her to grab two health potions and down them in quick succession. It’s enough for her to stand again, though she’s well beyond the point where potions will heal the massive hole in her abdomen. She retrieves her fallen dagger and stumbles over to where the Arishok kneels, trying to stop the blood gushing from his neck in vain. The fifth and final stamina draught goes down. Half drips down her chin and it only serves to make her more tired.

It takes more energy than she can spare in her state, but she kicks his face anyway. He scrambles back, claws digging into the stairs. Her friends step aside and draw their weapons, watching mutely as Hawke kicks the Arishok again. His nose breaks and a fresh stream of blood trails down his face. The look in his eyes is as close to fear as she’s ever seen in a Qunari—it fills her with a feral pleasure. 

“We…will…return,” he rasps, pointing a finger at her. 

“We’ll kill them, too.” Hawke’s voice is harder than she thought it could be. She sets a heavy knee on his heaving chest and slowly, so slowly, pushes the tip of her dagger into his other eye and keeps pushing until the hilt is stopped by his skull. The shout of pain is much too short. His hands push at her weakly for the final time before falling limp, lifeless. The Arishok breathes his last so Hawke finally can. 

A disbelieving cheer rises from the nobles. Bran supports himself against the railing and casts a glance toward Dumar’s remains. 

Varric catches her before she falls. Even as something nearby clatters down the stairs, he can’t tear his eyes from her battered form as he struggles with her weight. His strangled cry for Anders is unnecessary but he needs to know the mage is ready. Hawke dying in his arms might just kill him. Anders helps him carry her down to the bottom of the stairs so she can lay flat—and Varric sees Bianca lying on the ground. He can’t even remember drawing her—it must have been when the Arishok crawled towards him—but _dropping_ her… 

Hawke coughs weakly and he forgets about Bianca. Fresh blood on her lips means, well, it means that Anders had better hurry. 

Anders glows an unearthly blue with Justice’s aid, pumping healing magic into the raw mass that is now Hawke’s torso. Varric’s hands compulsively caress Hawke’s bloodied face—Maker, which part of her isn’t bloodied—brushing her hair away and silently imploring her to open those lovely eyes again. He’d give anything for one more lopsided smile. Fenris glances at him and he wonders if he said that out loud.

“Hawke,” he whispers. “Hawke, come on. This is nothing for you.” 

The other Qunari silently make their way out. Fenris draws his blade when one stops near them, but he moves on after grabbing the Arishok’s weapons. Isabela kneels on Hawke’s other side, wet tracks clear on her cheeks, and uses her scarf to help Anders soak up the blood. 

“Please, Hawke.” The pleading quality to his voice is pathetic. “You can’t die.” 

Bloody, cracked lips part and something unintelligible passes them. Varric’s thumb instinctively brushes them, imploring her to say something, _anything_. Her eyelids flutter and he taps her face lightly, calling her name again. 

“Th-thought you wanted a good story.” Her voice is dry, weak, and undoubtedly the best thing he’s ever heard—the number of times he’s thought that in the wake of some near-death experience with Hawke is something he’ll have to address eventually. For now he’ll settle for knowing she’s alive. He needs to collect himself before he can speak, caressing her face while taking care to avoid the gash splitting it. There’s a long moment where he thinks he’s going to cry. 

“Oh, you thought I forgot about that? No, I just needed you to hear something first.” 

“What?” Her eyes flutter open, unfocused but trying so hard to find his face. The sight of them, big and brown and beautiful, makes him have to choke down tears again. 

“I told you so.” 

Her laugh is weak, stopping as quickly as it starts when her torn abdomen can’t support it. 

“I just killed the Arishok and you’re going to rub this in my face? Worst best friend ever.” 

He can’t stop smiling down at her. Jokes are no guarantee for her chances of survival, but they certainly can’t hurt. A hand lifts and he takes it, giving it a gentle squeeze. He leans forward until his forehead touches hers. Hawke nudges him back as best she can. 

The doors open and Aveline appears, a handful of guardsmen at her back. She’s splattered with blood but none looks to be her own. 

“The Knight-Commander is here,” she directs at Anders. She risks a grim glance at Hawke before leaving. 

The stream of healing magic cuts off and Anders switches to poultices until he can tend to Hawke in privacy. 

This time the doors slam against the walls as a dozen Templars led by Knight-Commander Meredith march in. 

“It’s…over?” Meredith stares in disbelief at the Arishok’s corpse. It takes a moment for her to notice Hawke. 

Hawke fakes a level of wellness that she is far from, sitting up and easing her grin back into place. Her initial meeting just hours ago with the Knight-Commander was enough to concern even herself. Seems that showing up in Templar reports for her aid _wasn’t_ a good thing. Hawke didn’t think she would be arrested, but she wasn’t going to let Meredith know her actual state in case she was in a justice-y mood with no Qunari left to administer it to. 

“Sorry to bring you all the way up here for nothing,” Hawke says. 

“ _You_ —all on your own?” Meredith’s shock is entertaining; her disappointment less so. Perhaps she wanted the Templars responsible for saving the city. Perhaps she expected Hawke would be dead. 

“I have all the luck.” Coming from her battered, profusely bleeding form, it’s rather funny. 

Meredith looks the exact opposite of pleased when she says, “It looks like Kirkwall has a new Champion.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, so sorry for the delay! I found an internship, but that means I'm working 50 hour weeks for the next several months which leaves me with far less time to work on this. I promise I will whenever I have the chance, but updates will be even less regular at least through May.
> 
> Thank you so much for the kudos and comments! They're really keeping me going!


	12. Chapter 12

They waited until the Knight-Commander began issuing orders to the Templars, using the distraction to drape Hawke over Fenris’s shoulders and drag her out of the Keep. Her bluffing wore off the moment they left the throne room, her face paling rapidly as she sagged against Fenris. They tried not to jostle her battered body more than necessary during the frantic rush down the many stairs. 

Aveline spotted them from across the square and shouted orders to Brennan before lending Fenris a hand in supporting Hawke’s weight. Anders had already resumed his healing spells, doing what he could to keep her insides _inside._ Isabela ran ahead and picked the lock on the Hawke estate door. 

Bodahn was only momentarily speechless at the spectacle before him, but within minutes he and Orana had retrieved everything Anders demanded and Hawke was carried up to her room. Varric stood frozen for a long moment, staring at the trail of blood that marked the floor through the entrance, up the stairs, all the way to Hawke’s bedroom. A horrible part of his brain insisted that she had lost too much. He ignored it and followed them upstairs. 

The scene in her bedroom didn’t instill him with much more hope. Anders was drenched in blue light, eyes glowing and voice tinged with Justice’s unearthly tone. Aveline had shucked her gauntlets and held a clean towel to one of Hawke’s less-serious wounds until Anders could turn his attention to it. 

“Varric?” Hawke said weakly. She was drifting in and out of consciousness, head lolling on her shoulders as she searched among the sea of faces for him. “Where’s Varric? I have to…” 

“I’m right here.” He grabbed her hand and squeezed. Her fingers twitched but couldn’t return any pressure. 

She turned to him, eyes more sincere than he could remember seeing in recent history. “Make sure my eulogy mentions that I was good in bed.” 

He waited a beat for her to grin, but the sincerity in her eyes didn’t fade. Varric snorted involuntarily and dipped his head to hide the laugh. “Hawke, you’re not dead yet. And regardless, I’m afraid I can’t vouch for you.” 

“But what else will anyone remember me for?” She was actually distressed over this. Maker, what a woman. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Varric trailed off, trying to sound more thoughtful than concerned. Hawke was fighting to stay awake; her eyes periodically rolled back into her skull before she came back around again. “There was that whole Arishok thing. I think a few people might remember that.” 

She considered this as if her struggle for the last hour hadn’t even crossed her mind. “Make me sound more intimidating when you tell it,” Hawke said around her best attempt at a smirk. “Less running in circles, more…I don’t know…blood magic or something.”

“For you? Anything.” 

“But don’t forget the bed thing.” 

“I’m fairly certain half the Blooming Rose would vouch for you, anyway,” Isabela said. “So don’t fret your pretty little head.” 

Hawke’s head swiveled toward Isabela’s voice with a crooked grin. It faded quickly, eaten away by a rush of pain as Anders applied pressure to her abdomen. She gasped and lost consciousness. This time she didn’t stir. 

“Hawke,” Varric said, patting the back of her hand. “ _Hawke,_ come on. Stay with me, here.” 

She began convulsing. Her back lifted off the bed through the uncontrollable waves that shook her limbs. Varric jerked his hands away, afraid to touch her. Aveline removed her hands, too, comically bringing them closer and further from Hawke’s body as she debated what to do. 

“All those stamina draughts have caught up with her,” Anders sighed. “Her pulse is erratic. I need everyone out. Not you Fenris, I need you to hold her down.” 

They filed out reluctantly and settled for waiting downstairs by the fire. Aveline left almost immediately to rally the guards and continue with the recovery efforts. Shortly after, Isabela headed out to tell Merrill and Sebastian about Hawke’s condition. Varric told her to look for Lady Elegant and arrange for a delivery of healing salves; they would need them. 

And Varric was left alone with Sandor to wait anxiously for Blondie to do what he could. The mabari circled back to Varric every few minutes for a comforting pat on the head. Hours passed, and his imagination made every second an excruciating exercise in just how wild it could run. 

Isabela returned after only an hour, Merrill and Sebastian in tow. She ran up the stairs with a bag clutched under an arm—so she had found Lady Elegant. Merrill had kept the Alienage safe, sealing the gates with magic and killing any Qunari that attempted to break through. Sebastian had grabbed as many of Kirkwall’s panicking citizens as he could and gathered them in the Chantry. They were forbidden from going upstairs to see Hawke for themselves, a situation which Sebastian took surprisingly poorly. He was in some form of shock and Varric realized that he had never seen their fearless leader in any injured state. Hawke took him away from his duties so seldom that he’d been sheltered from most of the shit they slugged through on a daily basis—including Hawke’s many flirtations with death. If not for his own state of mind, Varric might actually have tried to comfort the Chantry brother. 

They all found their own corners to wallow in, and even Aveline returned before they heard anything from upstairs. The first tentative rays of sunlight marked the end of what had been an impossibly long night, and Bodahn finally appeared at the top of the stairs. A less than dignified rush up to her room ensued. 

There was even more blood than before. The mattress would likely have to be replaced. _Or maybe not_ , the horrible voice in the back of Varric’s head whispered. He tamped it down again. 

Anders sat at Hawke’s desk, slumped with exhaustion and dark circles beneath his eyes. Orana stood anxiously at his side, as if afraid standing near her mistress would undo Anders’s work. Fenris sat at Hawke’s side with a cool cloth for her head. He barely stirred as the rest of them came to stand around the bed. 

And Hawke. Hawke was _pale_ , a stark contrast to her normal complexion. Aveline, braver than the rest of them, peeled back the blanket to see the damage. Hawke was bare to the waist, save her breastband. The rest was…hard to look at. Her abdomen looked raw, and Varric’s thoughts briefly strayed to the meat pie vendor in Lowtown operating the grinder. It took a long moment for him to calm his stomach. He had written enough heroic battles to earn him a very comfortable living, but this wasn’t a story. Seeing what the reality had done to Hawke was too much. Too real. 

“Blondie?” 

Anders started, nearly asleep, and dragged a hand down his face. “I don’t know. I think the worst has passed. The next few days will tell.” 

“Her face,” Merrill said with an expression of horror. “What happened?”

“She mocked him,” Fenris said. “He retaliated.”

“Is there anything you can do?” Isabela said softly.

“Sorry,” Anders said sarcastically, but with no hostility; he was too tired for it. “I was too preoccupied with the gaping wound in her stomach to worry about her face.” 

“I didn’t mean—” 

“I know,” Anders sighed. “When I tell you that I don’t have enough mana to guarantee she _won’t_ open back up, I mean I have _nothing_.” He paused to look at her face. “It stopped bleeding a while ago. I’m not sure it would heal without a scar, even if I could do anything about it right now.” 

Isabela nodded, unsure what else to say. She moved to pick up one of Lady Elegant’s poultices and sat at Hawke’s side, tending the wound as best she could. She wasn’t the type to cry about her guilt; she needed no reassurances from the rest of them. When Fenris put a hand on her shoulder she shrugged him off and continued to clean the wound.

 

***

 

Hawke remained unconscious for over a week. While Anders assured them this was for the best, it didn’t do much to ease their minds. They took turns watching over her, going about their business and returning to the estate for a few hours at a time to relieve the last person. And still Hawke didn’t stir. Without their leader, the group was in severely low spirits. No one came around for cards—they couldn’t take the silence of the game without Hawke’s constant jabbering. They didn’t go exploring the coast or the sewers because someone would have to take charge, and not a single one of them could do it without feeling the void of Hawke’s presence. Everything came to a standstill. 

Until she woke up. 

It was Varric’s watch, and there was something almost brag-worthy about having her wake up when he was there. After nine hours at her bedside he was barely conscious himself —he had spent more time there than everyone else, bringing his Guild scrolls with him and working at her desk. When he could focus, that is. 

Hawke’s still-as-stone face abruptly spasmed as Varric was nodding out. At first he didn’t even notice, tired as he was, but he sat straight up when he finally did. Her eyes opened slowly, fluttering as they adjusted to light for the first time in over a week. She blinked once, twice, and turned her head in his direction when he let out a disbelieving breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. 

And her brows furrowed. The blank stare that met his eyes wasn’t her mask; she wasn’t trying to keep him from reading her thoughts. A full minute passed while Hawke looked at him with absolutely no sign of recognition and Varric could only stare back in denial. 

“Who are you?” Her voice was a croak, but more than that it was devoid of any emotion. She looked at him curiously, like one of the oddities in the Black Emporium. 

Swallowing a hot coal would have been less painful than the sound of those words. His mouth flapped open and closed several times trying to say her name in hopes of sparking something, but shock had robbed him of air and he couldn’t utter a sound. 

Hawke didn’t know who he was. _Hawke didn’t know who he was_. 

Part of him wanted to find Blondie and demand he fix this. The other part of him was rooted to his chair in disbelief. Over six years of friendship gone…He couldn’t wrap his brain around it; he refused to. 

Then her whole countenance changed in an instant, a beaming smile lighting up her pale face. 

“I had you,” she laughed weakly. 

Varric was going to kill her. He was going to grab the pillow and smother her for putting him through that. 

Instead he dipped his head into the crook of her neck in the best estimation of a hug he could manage with her in bed. He chuckled helplessly, overcome by the surge of emotion. Hawke was alive and she knew who he was. That was enough for him. 

“Don’t do that to me, Hawke,” he said. 

“Comedic timing has never been my strong suit,” she said, laying a hand on the back of Varric’s head. “How long?”

“Twelve days.” 

“Ah,” she said with some regret. “That _was_ rather poor timing.” 

“No shit.” Varric grinned and pulled away from her. “How you feeling?” 

“Like I got hit by an Arishok.” 

Varric laughed. “You look like it too.” 

Hawke rolled her head to the side and seemed to take inventory of all her parts. “The Maker must really not want me,” she said wryly. 

“Well, with jokes like yours can you blame him?” 

“The Maker’s a spoilsport.” 

“That just means I’ll have to put up with you a little longer, then.” 

 

***

 

After a week, Hawke was able to sit up on her own with only five minutes of heavy breathing afterwards. It took another week for her to stand without doubling over—she tried several times until Anders threatened to tie her down, which only served to make her wait until he wasn’t around. And it was worth the mage’s expression when he was the one to find her trying. There would be a flash of blue anger and the slightest crackling of magic in the air, followed by resignation. 

Hawke was a very bad patient. Stagnation had never agreed with one so used to being on the move, and it certainly didn’t agree with her now. Any time she was left unattended meant she would eventually be found as far from her bed as her battered body could manage, which usually left her in a heap in nothing but her smallclothes, stitches torn, and moaning in pain. Varric had even found her trying to climb out of the unnaturally high windows in her room. Her state of undress might have made these situations awkward if not for her habit of shedding clothing when drunk, tired, or after finding new armor pieces around the city. 

“So help me, Hawke, if you get out of that bed again,” Anders grumbled while healing another set of ripped stitches. 

“You’ll what?” The patient in question scoffed. “I’d like to see you try. I’m bigger than you.” 

Varric, sitting at her side, poked her in the stomach and she doubled over with a rather pathetic whine. “The bigger they are…” 

“You’re not my favorite anymore.” Hawke still couldn’t straighten herself into a sitting position, which gave Anders plenty of time to fix her side. 

“Oh, please,” Varric said, giving one of her shaggy locks a tug. “Even you don’t believe that.” 

Anders rolled his eyes. “I’m almost done. For the love of Andraste, wait until I’m out of the room.” 

“Fuck you,” Hawke grunted, her voice muffled by the blankets. 

Three weeks of staying in bed with nothing more than sponge baths had made her stir-crazy, so Anders relented to Isabela and Aveline helping her with an actual bath. They took it as a blessing that Hawke, of all people, was not only compliant with taking a bath, but _eager_ to take one. 

She slung an arm over Aveline’s shoulder and jabbered on happily as Isabela waited by the tub, amused. But as they passed the full length mirror against one wall, Hawke managed to catch a glimpse of herself and stopped so suddenly that Aveline nearly knocked her over. Her face had been mid-laugh when confusion overtook it. She slowly lifted a hand, as if waiting for the image reflected back at her to change before she could touch it. But the reflection didn’t change and her fingers brushed over the deep gash, very real and very much hers. The realization made her sag visibly, all the joy wiped away. Glib, to shocked, to crestfallen in seconds. 

So much time had passed since Hawke’s survival was up in the air that Varric forgot she still hadn’t seen the full extent of the damage. From her spot on the edge of the tub, Isabela saw Hawke’s expression and averted her eyes, face tight. Aveline tugged Hawke along and her steps resumed, but slowly. She suddenly didn’t have the energy to lift her legs over the edge of the tub, leaving Aveline to do it. 

“Out, you,” Aveline said to Varric. 

Isabela followed him and they exchanged a look. They both knew what the other was thinking, so there was no need to talk about it. 

“Drinks?” Varric asked. 

“Drinks.”

 

***

 

Hawke heard the door open. The heavy steps could only have been Varric’s, but she didn’t want to see him. She didn’t want to see _anyone_. Maybe if she didn’t move he’d leave.

He didn’t. 

“Hey,” Varric said. He sat on the edge of the bed despite her lack of response. She felt a nudge at her ribs—a very gentle nudge—and couldn’t help moving away. “You want to look at me?” 

“Not really.” 

“Fair enough. Can I have your hand, at least?” 

She considered for a moment before untangling one from the blankets and reaching back. Her hips shifted as she stretched her arm behind her, but she made sure to keep her face turned away. Calloused fingers caressed her own and a tear rolled down her cheek; it had been happening constantly the last few days. Part of it was pain, but she couldn’t deny that it was mostly grief for her face. There was shame, too. The last time she’d been this lethargic, her mother had kicked her out of the house after learning of Bethany’s fate. This was petty in comparison, but here she was, wallowing in her bed for another week. As if she hadn’t spent enough time cooped up. 

“I’m not going to try to pretend to know what you’re going through,” Varric said. “But I don’t see that this changes anything.” 

“No one is ever going to look me in the face again.” 

“Drama doesn’t suit you, Hawke. We both know you’re not the type for vanity.” 

“I’m not being vain!” It was hard to argue without facing him. “I just want people to see _me_ and not this scar. There’s always going to be this awkward moment as they figure out where they’re supposed to look instead and…and it’ll end with them looking away. The others are already doing it.” 

Varric had no response. 

“I’m afraid you won’t look at me anymore,” she said quietly enough that he wasn’t sure he heard her correctly. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Varric scoffed. 

In one quick motion Hawke ripped her hand out of his and sat up, turning to him. He was taken aback at the suddenness of her movement—he hadn’t thought her wounds would allow it. Her stare was hard, daring him to prove her right, but he held her gaze. The stark contrast between the scar and her dark skin drew his eyes to it, but they lifted back to hers without hesitation. 

“See?” 

She looked unsure and sheepish. Varric could see her desire to draw away and ball herself up again. He outstretched a hand toward her face the way he always did. No second thoughts, no hesitation. The wariness in Hawke’s eyes stopped him, though. Varric blinked in surprise. It was such a normal part of their time together that he wasn’t sure what to do in the face of her reluctance. 

Hawke wasn’t sure what was going on between them anymore. Their friendship was her sanctuary, and she thought it had been clear thus far what they both expected from one another. She sought lies from Varric. Lies about where they stood; about the lines they were close to crossing and those they had already crossed. Lies about what they meant to one another, which were admittedly easier to uphold when they weren’t in life-threatening situations. She thought he wanted them from her, too, but he wasn’t letting her get away with them anymore. 

She knew she was attracted to Varric, as she was attracted to most people. Accepting that this was different wasn’t something she wanted to consider, disheveled as her life was right now, but clearly it _was_ different. The fight with the Arishok had made her more aware than she wanted to be of how much she relied on Varric to keep her grounded. And Varric’s once predictable responses had changed. Ever since the Arishok they had been bordering on _honesty_ with one another. What was once a constant pattern of joke-deflection-laugh-repeat had become something else entirely. Where she had sought exasperation and empty humor to reassure her, he had given her desperation. Their exchanges lost their predictability, and she was floundering without it. She was beginning to fear that she’d end up saying something _real_ to him, and after years of sarcasm and deflection Hawke had managed to delude herself that she could go on with their relationship unchanged. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know where they’d be without the jokes and the lies, and at the same time she _did_. 

Varric was still staring at her, hand hovering near her cheek, and she realized how long she had been lost in thought. She worried her lip and gave him a nod. The faintest brush of contact over the gash on her face sent an unpleasant shiver down her spine and a flood of anxiety through her veins. It was too much to maintain eye contact so she broke it and turned hers to the bed. Both of his hands came up to touch the healing skin, one under her chin to turn her face to the light and the other to lightly trace the wound.

“Does it hurt?” At least his voice wasn’t pitying. 

Hawke gave him a pointed look before rolling her eyes to the ceiling. 

“Is there physical pain?” he clarified. 

“No,” she said after a moment’s consideration. She hadn’t even realized she had been wounded there until she saw herself in the mirror. Not that the blow to her confidence didn’t hurt, though. “I don’t even notice it, really.” 

Varric lowered his hands and raised his eyebrows as if to say, _So what’s the big deal?_  

“If you carry on like this is some big hit to your ego, then people are going to walk on eggshells around you.” 

“Easy for you to say. _Your_ face hasn’t gone through a meat grinder.” 

“True.” Varric’s voice was light and easy, and obviously working very hard to hide his concern. It didn’t seem to matter that she wanted things to remain unchanged; she could see the cracks between them now. “But I also didn’t fight the Arishok in a duel and walk away with just a scratch to show for it.” 

“It’s a bit more than a _scratch_ ,” she scoffed. 

“I’m sure many armies wish they could have said the same.” 

That was an interesting way of seeing it, she supposed. Maybe if she told herself that enough times and drank quite a bit more she’d eventually believe it. 

Varric shrugged. “If anyone says anything, Bianca and I’ll take care of them.” 

Hawke chewed her lip. “Well, I do still have all my teeth.” 

“Atta girl.” Varric smiled while pulling out a deck of cards. “Now what do you say we brush the dust off your Diamondback game?” 

Varric came over every day with cards and stories for Hawke. She knew it was for her benefit and on some level she felt guilty that he thought she needed the coddling, but on the other hand she liked the attention. And, truth be told, she was still feeling pretty self-conscious about the scar across her face, so a little selfishness on her part could be excused. 

Plus her bedridden state gave her more opportunities to annoy her dear dwarven friend, and she could easily admit she was too weak a woman to resist. 

Varric opened the door after a polite knock to make sure she was decent (just once she wanted to _not_ be decent to see what he would do) and he stopped short when he saw the bottle cradled in one arm. Hawke didn’t look up from her book, hiding her smile with another swig of wine. 

“Who gave you wine?” The disapproval in Varric’s voice made it that much harder not to smile. 

“No one _gave_ it to me,” she replied, still not looking up from what was really quite a steamy scene in her novel. Would it be rude to ask Varric to leave and come back in an hour? “I found it.” 

“I’ll tell Anders.” His weight settled near the foot of her bed. 

Hawke rolled her eyes. “Can I have just _one_ visitor who doesn’t nag me with their boringness?” 

“My _boringness_ , as you call it, results from you nearly getting killed in front of me for the hundredth time. You were even telling me what to put in your eulogy.” 

Huh. An odd twinge attached to some hazy memory in the back of her mind almost made her bite her tongue—almost. 

“Oh? Something about drinking gravy out of the Arishok’s skull on my deathbed?” 

Varric chuckled, shuffling the cards and dealing them each a hand. “Ah, no. More along the lines of vouching for your prowess between the sheets.” 

Hawke had enough self-control not to snap her head up to meet Varric’s smirk—which she could very much feel. All she could manage was a noncommittal sound of interest as she turned the page. 

“You were rather upset when I informed your delirious self that I hadn’t had the pleasure.” 

Bastard. He was provoking her on purpose, yes, but she couldn’t tell if he was messing with her or not. It _did_ sound like something she would do. If she were better composed, she’d ask if he _would_ like to have the pleasure. 

“It’s incredible, really,” Hawke said, trying to match Varric’s casual tone and falling just a tick short. “The effects of severe blood loss on the reasonable mind.” 

That got a snort out of him. She wasn’t sure if that’s what she’d been aiming for, but it opened the opportunity to deflect and she latched on. If not for the steamy romance already giving her less-than-pure ideas, she might have done so with much more grace. Alas, she had to put cleverer responses to bed—and evidently work on the phrasing of her thoughts--for fear of her arousal distorting them. The book closed with a snap and she pretended not to notice Varric’s ever-enduring grin, picking up her hand of cards. For good measure she took another gulp of wine, and felt Varric’s smirk turn to displeasure even without looking over her cards. 

“So,” Varric said after discarding. “What are you reading?” 

“Bodice-ripper from Isabela.” 

“You’ve been reading an awful lot of those,” he said, insinuation clear. Another attempt to fluster her, but she was ready this time. 

“I have _needs_ , Varric,” she said smoothly. _And I’d like some help with them._  

Varric was caught off guard, eyes snapping up to hers. For a moment they were dark and intense, then he blinked and it was gone. He cleared his throat and asked in an overly-cheerful tone, “Any good?” 

“I’ve read better. Read worse, too.” She waited for his sound of acknowledgement. “I believe it’s one of _yours,_ actually.” 

A brief scrunch of his nose was all the response she got. 

“You’ve written quite a few recently,” Hawke said, barely keeping an undignified yelp at bay when he grabbed the bottle of wine away and took a swallow. 

“My editor is buying a new vacation home in Antiva thanks to the profits from _Swords & Shields_. She wants to buy out the properties around hers so that she, and I quote, ‘never has to wake up to the sight of peasants again.’ So write more drivel, I must.” 

“I like that woman.” Hawke took the wine back and drank deeply. 

“I’m fairly certain that if you were one of her neighbors, you would be included in the peasants she hates to look at.” 

“I’m delightful.” 

“That’s debatable.” Varric held out his hand for the bottle and Hawke acquiesced. 

“You’re sitting on _my_ bed, drinking _my_ wine, and can tell me I’m not delightful with a straight face?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well! Serah, I am duly offended.” 

“I’m sure you’ll get over it.” 

“I’ll need more wine first.” Hawke mimicked Varric’s gesture from moments ago. His expression was one she had seen cornered cats display. Her fingers beckoned once, twice, and Varric handed over the wine. It was the little victories, truly. 

“You end up bleeding again and Blondie’s not gonna be happy.”

“When _is_ he happy?” 

“Touché.”

 

***

 

Varric’s reassurances had done enough repair to Hawke’s psyche that she could at least fake her old attitude. She supposed that eventually the self-consciousness would fade. For now there was deflection and humor, the timing of which couldn’t have been better since the whole rag-tag group was there to see her. 

“’Fight the Arishok,’ you said,” Hawke mocked Fenris. “’It’ll be fun,’ you said.” 

“I never said it would be fun,” Fenris said dryly. He had crossed his arms and was trying very hard not to glare at their bed-ridden leader. 

“Then why would you suggest it?” Hawke said. She did her best to sound exasperated, but her grin gave her away. 

“It…seemed honorable?” 

“That’s even worse. Suggesting _honor_ to a thief and murderer… _really_.”

“Forgive the transgression,” Fenris said, rolling his eyes. 

“Depends on what you all brought me.” When no one made any indication of having anything to entertain her she blinked. “No cards? No _whiskey_? I thought you guys loved me.” 

“No!” Anders blurted out. “No whiskey! You’re bleeding enough already.” 

“Why _am_ I still bleeding?” she asked. “It’s been weeks.” 

“You didn’t just get a little cut, Hawke,” Anders said in the long-suffering tone that had colored his interactions with her since she woke up. “You were _impaled_. And then thrown _while still impaled_. You’re lucky you weren’t completely gutted.” 

“Fine, no whiskey,” she sighed. “I’ll just have wine.” 

Anders dragged a hand down his face. He truly looked like he was at the end of his rope with her. Hawke felt a little bad for about three seconds, until Isabela pulled out a deck of cards and a round of Wicked Grace was announced. 

“That’s my cue,” Sebastian declared. “I’m glad you are on the mend, Hawke.” He was halfway through bowing to her when she interrupted him. 

“You’re leaving?” 

“I’m afraid I could not stay for, ah, games that oppose the duties of a Brother.” 

“Are you telling me, Sebastian, that me risking _my_ life to save _everyone’s_ lives is not enough for you to suspend your morals and play a round of cards?” 

Isabela looked up from her shuffling to shoot Hawke a sly grin. 

“I don’t see what that has to d—” 

“It’s really quite rude,”  Hawke said with a shake of her head. She picked up her hand and reorganized it. “I mean, all I’ve wanted to do since being impaled by the military leader of the Qunari is play some cards with my dearest friends.” 

“Hawke, I—I,” Sebastian stammered helplessly, looking to the others for help. But everyone was looking expectantly at him and the remaining hand of cards on the corner of Hawke’s bed. He sighed in defeat. “I suppose a round wouldn’t hurt.” 

Sebastian won three rounds before Hawke kicked him out. 

“It appears you all have a harder time cheating when there’s no table to hide what you’re doing,” Sebastian mused. 

“Out!” Hawke barked and shot a glare at Fenris’s chuckling. 

The Chantry brother bowed and turned on his heel, but not before they saw the smile gracing his lips. 

“Since it _wasn’t_ clear,” Hawke grumbled at the rest of them. “You were supposed to let me win because I’m bedridden and almost died.” 

“He remembers more from his rakish days than he admits,” Anders said. 

“I bet he’s putting his winnings in the donation box as we speak,” Isabela said, the corners of her mouth turned down with displeasure. 

“The nerve,” Fenris monotoned.

 

***

 

When Anders gave her the go ahead to leave the estate, Hawke could have sang—though Kirkwall likely rejoiced that she didn’t. He was very clear that _outside_ did not mean she was in a state to take on raiders or giant spiders or dragons. Hawke could be sensible, at times even downright reasonable, and she decided that this could be one of those times. Though she wanted to revisit the dragon-fighting idea at a later date. 

For now she was happy to leave her stuffy mansion and spend the day wandering around the market. Even better was Varric volunteering to keep an eye on her, and she made good use of his shoulder to lean on even when she didn’t explicitly need it. _Especially_ when she didn’t need it. Somewhere in the middle of the reason she claimed to be making use of, she knew this was problematic. Reasonable people did not insist that they wanted things to remain the same with their attractive best friend while leaning heavily on said friend, whose face happened to be level with certain parts of her anatomy. Reasonable people also didn’t fake the occasional fainting spell so that said friend would fret over them. 

Hawke was not good at being reasonable.

 

***

 

Hawke swaggered into the Hanged Man several weeks after being allowed to leave her mansion for the first time, and several weeks after _that_ when Anders deemed her battle-ready. It felt fantastic to be in leathers again with daggers strapped to her back and mischief planned for the rest of the day. A group of bandits had moved into a Lowtown warehouse in her absence, and she was very much looking forward to ruining their day. 

Varric was out doing—well, whatever Varric did when he wasn’t with her—so a ladies outing seemed like a good idea. Denial had long since passed being an option. She had officially reached the point of not being able to ignore it without being blackout drunk, and soon the cumulative hangover was going to kill her. Hawke was determined to bring this back and forth with Varric to a—hopefully mutually satisfying—conclusion, so she wanted to see if they had any input for her.

Isabela had picked up on things a long time ago. She and Isabela very pointedly _didn’t_ talk about Varric, but they had a way of talking about things without actually talking about them. Hawke had been turning to her whenever she couldn’t trust herself around Varric, which was a far more common occurrence of late. Hence, ladies outing. 

Hawke had barely crossed the threshold when Isabela came down the stairs with a bag slung over her shoulder and a grim look on her face. 

“Hey, we’re staying in Lowtown today,” Hawke said. “You don’t need all that.” 

“I’m not going,” Isabela said, avoiding Hawke’s eyes and trying to move past her. 

“Where _are_ you going, then?” Hawke stepped into her path. 

“I don’t know, but I’m not staying here.” 

“Wait, what?” 

“You don’t deserve to deal with everything I’ve messed up. It’s best I leave.” 

“Isabela, what? No! What are you—?” Hawke stammered. This was going in a direction she hadn’t imagined. 

“I’m getting on a boat, Hawke,” she said slowly, as if explaining something to a child. “And I’m not coming back.” 

“I won’t let you!” 

Isabela took two quick strides toward her, closing the gap between them to just a few inches. Despite the fact that Hawke was a full head taller than Isabela, the expression in the pirate’s eyes scared her. But Isabela only brushed a finger over the scar on Hawke’s cheek with a mournful look, and followed her finger’s path with her lips. 

“Goodbye, Sweetness.” 

And she was gone. 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's a ball between friends?
> 
> [Reference](http://65.media.tumblr.com/ae1f4eda4501b05c0e3a0af9e6501ba6/tumblr_nv00kpknbf1sfy3b9o2_540.jpg) for Hawke's dress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My life is still a mess and shows no signs of chilling, so updates will continue to be sporadic. I have a loose outline of future chapters though, so there is direction even if there isn't enough time in the day. Again, thanks for the comments and kudos!

“No.” 

“ _Please_ , Varric? I refuse to go alone and I can’t turn down the invitation again.” 

Varric took off his glasses and gave Hawke a long-suffering sigh. “Andraste’s tits, Hawke. Why would I ever voluntarily attend some stuffy noble party?” 

“Because I’m your best friend?” 

Varric remained unmoved. 

“And you don’t want me to suffer alone?” 

He leaned back and crossed his arms. Hawke had to very pointedly _not_ look at the way the material strained. 

“And no one else is a viable option?” 

An unimpressed and, frankly, insulting look crossed his face. 

“Fine, and I’ll buy drinks for the week.” 

“Month,” he countered, settling back in his chair smugly and leaving his arms crossed. Had he caught her staring? 

“Month?!” She threw her arms up comically, but judging by his expression it was the best she’d do. “All right! A month! You’re losing your position as my favorite, you know.” 

“I’m sure I’ll get over it,” Varric said, replacing his glasses on the bridge of his nose and returning to his work. “Honestly, Hawke, why are you even going to this party? You’ve said no to the others.” 

“Because it sounds like a grand old time,” she monotoned. Varric barely acknowledged her so she sighed and continued, knowing what would sway him. “Lady Reinhardt helped with Mother’s funeral arrangements,” Hawke conceded. 

Varric put his quill down before he could even set the point to paper, furrowing his brow in sympathy. 

“I’ve been avoiding this for the last year. After the last one she said that I would set the date, and it’s harder to make excuses when there’s no Viscount to bother me.” 

“I still don’t get why you can’t take someone else,” Varric griped. “You have a whole band of misfits to choose from. One of them has to be better than me.” 

“You want me to run through my options? Fine.” Hawke began counting off her fingers. “Anders may be able to look the part, but he’s so delirious with the mage cause that Justice is sure to make an appearance; Fenris will attract attention and probably break someone’s face the first time he’s mistaken for a servant; Merrill will ask the nobles awkward questions; and Aveline outright said no.” 

“Choir Boy?” 

She snorted. “I’m trying to find someone _sympathetic_ to my woes, Varric. Like I’m going to voluntarily subject myself to Sebastian’s schmoozing and proselytizing while I try to get as drunk as possible. I would have brought Isabela, but for obvious reasons that’s a little difficult. You’re the only one I can suffer in peace with.” 

“What if I told you I had a Merchant’s Guild meeting?” He was even more reluctant than her if he would rather go to a Guild meeting. Unfortunately for him, a schedule of the year’s meetings happened to fall in her lap and she had picked a date far removed from the closest. 

“What if I told you that you’re full of shit and there isn’t a meeting for three weeks?” 

Varric grumbled and put his chin in his hand. 

“I’d be _very_ insulted if you chose a tedious Guild meeting over keeping your best friend company.” 

Varric tried very hard to turn her down, he did, but Hawke had a talent for looking pathetic when she wanted to. After several years, Varric was no more immune than the rest of their companions. 

“Fine,” he conceded at last, scowling at her cackle of victory. “But I won’t like it. And I’m not closing my shirt.” 

“Perish the thought.” She grinned at him, face beaming with pleasure. He looked away and scratched his nose. “Meet me at my estate tonight. Around seven?”

He grunted and waved her out of his room, picking up his quill again. Hawke caught the hint of a smile before he dove back into his work.

***

“Ah, good evening, Messere Tethras,” Bodahn greeted in his usual cheery voice. “I believe she’s almost ready.” 

Varric nodded and waited by the fireplace where Sandor slept. True to Bodahn’s word, he heard the door to Hawke’s room open followed by the click of heels across the hardwood. His mind ran through a number of possibilities; he’d never seen Hawke wear anything nicer than her finery and had a hard time imagining what she _would_ wear to an event like this. A dress of some sort, he assumed. Then again, he wouldn’t exactly be surprised if she showed up in her armor just to get a reaction out of the nobles. And not even clean armor; armor she had just worn to clear out giant spiders on the Wounded Coast. 

None of his expectations quite prepared him for what appeared at the top of the stairs. 

It was Hawke, and if not for the crooked grin or the cock of her hips she’d be a stranger to him. Her dress was off the shoulder and sleek, black with an overlay of intricate, golden embroidery so exquisite it must have been Orlesian. Kohl lined her eyes thicker than usual, ending in wings at the corners and giving her a perpetually sultry stare. Gold powder on her eyelids shimmered every time she blinked. Despite the short length of her hair, Orana had found a beautiful jeweled headband and had swept Hawke’s unruly bangs out of her face. They had grown out so long now without Isabela to forcibly trim them that they could hardly be called bangs anymore. He would have to tell her to keep them that way. It was odd to see so much of her face at once and he delighted in how much easier it was to read her expression. 

Judging by the smirk gracing her painted lips she had noticed his staring. She descended the stairs with a grace he’d only seen when she fought. It wasn’t that Hawke was clumsy, per se, but she lacked the usual sway to her steps that most women had. His jaw dropped before he could help it, landing somewhere in the Deep Roads, and Hawke’s expression grew even more smug. 

“Stunned by my good looks, Varr—?” The smirk was wiped from her face when she stepped on the hem of her gown and tripped. 

Luckily, there were only a few more steps ahead of her to tumble down and Varric was able to rush forward to steady her with one hand on her hip and the other on her shoulder. More impressive was that he managed this despite his hysterical laughter. Hawke was equally amused at herself, taking a moment doubled over Varric’s shoulder and guffawing in that terribly infectious way of hers. 

“Have I mentioned I’m a disaster in heels?” she said when she caught her breath. “Mother gave up altogether.” 

“We’ll just prop you up in a corner for the evening and no one will ever know the difference.” 

They shamelessly took each other in for a long moment. Varric’s jacket was much darker than his usual one, over a fine tunic of blue with silver embroidery. Sea silk, Hawke was fairly certain. Her mother would have been proud. His hair was down, slicked back with something to keep it out of his face, though a few strands had escaped. She was very pleased to see that he had kept his shirt open as he’d promised. Part of her wished he hadn’t, as her eyes repeatedly dropped to stare. 

Varric had already done quite enough staring, but seeing her up close was even more breathtaking and his ability to think clearly had nearly disappeared in the wake of her. Elegant—that’s the word he wanted, though it felt foreign when paired with Hawke, of all people. The usual descriptors came to mind: dangerous, cunning, unintentionally hilarious. _Elegant_ summoned images of nobles gliding across the floor—not Hawke. Hawke, who was usually covered in blood and grime, snapping off terrible jokes as she swaggered through the streets. It was easy to forget that she _was_ a noble. 

The moment drew out past polite standards and their eyes lingered longer than necessary. They both saw it, and they both saw _each other_ see it. It certainly wasn’t the first time they’d watched each other with dark eyes, curious and hungry after years of flirtations that crossed every line they put in place. Heat with no sign of extinguishing; _want_ with no means of satisfaction. Hawke saw the heat in Varric’s eyes and wondered if perhaps they wouldn’t make it to the ball. Static crawled down her spine and the hair on her arms stood up in anticipation. But Varric turned, clearing his throat and offering his arm, and the moment was gone. 

“Shall we?” he said. 

She linked her arm with his and decided she was grateful and not disappointed as Varric guided her through the streets of Hightown. Her usual mile-long strides were stunted by the heels; she made the motions but stumbled when the heels got in the way, forcing her to shorten her steps. Varric occasionally had to take her weight to keep her upright, chuckling at her troubles. 

“Oh!” They entered the ballroom and a breathy gasp came from the side. “Lady Hawke!” 

Hawke tensed, forcing herself to relax when Varric squeezed her arm. A fake smile plastered itself on her face; it was a mask that Varric hadn’t seen yet. 

“Lady Reinhardt,” she said in the high, proper voice she kept on hand for events like this. Being named Champion meant she’d had to perfect it quickly as the invitations piled up. She avoided them like the Blight. Aveline forced her to accept at least one a month—something about pleasing the public and helping (her) keep order. “Thank you so much for the invitation.” 

“Oh, don’t be silly!” The woman exclaimed theatrically. Varric understood why Hawke had put this off for so long. Lady Reinhardt held up her glass, clinking it with a spoon in her many-ringed hand. “Everyone! The Champion is here!” 

“Maker’s hairy ballsack,” Hawke muttered so quietly Varric barely caught it (or the laugh that nearly escaped). “Kill me, Varric. Kill me _now_.” 

Lady Reinhardt approached, hands outstretched to Hawke. Varric, knowing that he would pay dearly for it later, relinquished Hawke’s arm and allowed Lady Reinhardt to draw her away to be fawned over. Hawke managed a moment of eye contact with Varric before the crowd swallowed her and he was positive from her expression that he wouldn’t live to see another day. Ah, well. All the more reason to drink his fill.

Sometime later, Hawke was finally able to assure Lady Reinhardt that she would dance as many dances with the woman’s son as she could. She fully intended to get lost before Willem could ever approach her, but that was for her to know. The refreshment table came into view, along with Varric surrounded by several tittering ladies. A few snatches of conversation revealed that they were fans of his latest serial, _Swords and Shields_. From what Varric had read to her, it consisted of smut and a pretty severe lack of plot. He thoroughly disliked writing each new chapter, but now it had an overly enthusiastic following that would likely mutiny if he were to cancel it. She could see why; it was well-written smut. 

Varric caught her eye, desperate for rescue, and received a mere twitch of Hawke’s brow in return. The pleading in his eyes was pathetic and really, it wouldn’t be just for her to be merciful so soon after he abandoned her to the mass of her _own_ adoring fans; but one of the women was growing more handsy by the minute and Hawke decided that it _was_ too much for her to watch him suffer through. And so long as she still hadn’t been able to rake her fingers through his chest hair, neither would anyone else. Not in front of her, at least. 

“Varric!” she gushed in her ladylike voice. “There you are! I have _such_ news to share with you!” 

Hawke smoothly inserted herself between the handsy woman—whose hand was most definitely down Varric’s shirt—and grabbed his arm. “Oh, excuse me ladies. I have some very important Champion business to discuss with my friend here. Do excuse us.” 

And she pulled him along. 

“Maker’s ass, I owe you,” Varric mumbled, self-consciously closing a few buttons on his shirt. 

“I’ll say,” Hawke said. “You threw me to the wolves.” 

“Don't you think 'threw' is a bit strong? It was more of a gentle passing off. And you never said I had to bear the fawning with you.” 

“I could always call your adoring fans back…”

“No!” Varric clutched her arm and tried to clear his throat of the begging quality. “No, please.” 

“Well, lucky for you I know how you can repay me.” She shifted her back against the wall to better observe the room. Varric’s arm was still entwined with hers and she had no intention of letting go. “Do you see the man in that horrid yellow getup?” 

Varric turned his eyes across the floor until his expression turned to one of mild disgust. “The…wibbly one?” 

“Yes.” Hawke’s disgust far exceeded his own. “ _That_ is Willem, Lady Reinhardt’s last single child.” 

“And you’re not interested?” he mocked. 

Hawke smacked his shoulder. “ _No,_ I’m not interested. Do you know what he did in the Viscount’s Keep during the Qunari attack? Cried. And then _fainted!_ I can’t marry _that!_ ” 

Varric concurred. No one here could handle Hawke. Actually, he wasn’t sure _anyone_ could handle Hawke. 

“If Willem comes this way, we have to dance.” 

“I don’t remember agreeing to dancing, either,” Varric teased. 

She tossed him a smirk and a raised eyebrow before returning her gaze to the crowd. The smirk faded, replaced by a careful look before she spoke again, like she was considering whether or not to tell him something. “He just stares at my face. I don’t think he’s looked me in the eyes once since before the—since before.” 

“Oh.” 

The scar that spanned her face was in all honesty not _that_ bad. It was obvious, yes, and large. But it was a clean line, rather than mangled, lumpy flesh like most of her others. With her dark complexion the pale skin stood out, but it was far less stark than it had been initially and would continue to fade with time. 

“To be fair, he never really looked me in the face before, either,” Hawke said with some humor. “I guess it’s better than when he used to stare at my tits. And, I mean,” she laughed nervously, fingers self-consciously rubbing her nose, “I know I wasn’t exactly a looker before—not nearly enough Amell traits, even Carver was prettier than me—but it doesn’t really help.” 

“Stop.” The hard edge to Varric’s voice was uncompromising and ended her stream of nervous babbling immediately. 

He wanted to grab her face and make her look at him. To make her see that he was serious for once, and that if he could do it so could she. Hawke put up her protective wall of humor whenever she wanted, but for once he didn’t want her to keep it up with him. He wanted Niamh. Not the Champion. Not the legend he was writing about her. Just Niamh. 

But she was on display here and he knew it would only cause a scandal. Hawke had enough to deal with; she didn’t need the nobles talking about her private life any more than they already did. He settled for squeezing the arm linked with his. “You don’t need to be flawless to still be the most beautiful person here. So your face is scarred. Who cares? You got that saving this city and everyone in it from the sodding _Arishok_. They should be admiring it, not gawking.” 

Hawke was shocked into silence, cheeks flushed and an undeniable swell of pleasure in her chest. She watched Varric out of the corner of her eye as he glared in Willem’s direction. 

“Thanks,” she said softly with a squeeze of his arm against her side. There was still fire in his eyes when he looked at her, but they softened and he returned her smile, if a bit sheepishly. 

“Champion,” a curt voice interrupted their moment. Seneschal Bran, looking as annoyed as ever, held out a reluctant hand. “Would you do me the honor of the next dance?” 

To Hawke’s credit, her eyebrows only lifted a little and, after the briefest of pauses, she put her hand in his. “Of course, Seneschal.” The humor was evident in her tone; Bran wasn’t worth the effort of her proper voice. She threw an amused look over her shoulder at Varric as Bran led her onto the dance floor. 

“No horrible orange doublet to clash with your hair today, I see.” 

Bran was dressed in black satin with glossy, flowery designs visible in flashes under the right lighting. 

“It is proper for members of government to show mourning at major events after a Viscount’s death,” he said, ignoring—or perhaps expecting—her jibe. “With the Templars overseeing my office, I feel it is in my best interest to continue past the recommended period, at least at formal events, until they decide what to do with me. Knight-Commander Meredith approved of Dumar.” 

“You’re hoping that she’ll approve of your show of mourning him.” Not a question, and Bran didn’t respond to it. 

“I happened to notice that you brought one of your riff-raff friends with you,” Bran drawled. “You alone damage the decorum of this gathering, but I must applaud you on further degrading it. Bravo.” 

“Kirkwall wanted to get to know her Champion,” Hawke said, deciding not to resist a grin. “Varric and I also happen to be wealthier than almost every noble in attendance here tonight. Including you, I might add.” 

Bran closed his eyes briefly, probably to pray for patience. Hawke fell silent, letting Bran lead her through the waltz. She enjoyed bothering him as much as possible, but she appreciated that he treated her the same as always, Champion or not. The Qunari attack had had no effect on their interactions. And he never once looked at her nose. 

“So why bother asking me to dance?” Hawke asked, mentally counting the measures left in the song.

“It reflects well on me to be on good terms with the Champion.” The ice in his voice when he said her title gave her life. “I also need to discuss a personal matter, as requested by my wife.”

“Which would be?” 

He sighed, the most emotion she’d seen from him since the Qunari attack. “My son. I know you’ve no desire to wed him. He’s a spineless boy, and it would be a most unfortunate match. This is a visible way for my wife to see that we’ve discussed the matter. She’ll be most disappointed to hear of your rejection.” 

Hawke laughed, genuinely laughed, and thought that Bran’s mouth twitched just the slightest in response. She could almost consider liking him, if their general disdain for one another weren’t so entertaining. “You are the most conniving person I’ve ever met, and I’m a regular at the Hanged Man so that’s saying something. I’m impressed.” 

“I believe that was intended as a compliment, but I cannot believe you capable of such so I will disregard it. And I do believe this song is finally at an end.” He bowed perfunctorily. “Champion.” 

Bran turned on his heel, stepping aside as Willem blocked her path off the dance floor. The surge of panic left her frozen. She frantically searched for Varric—who was half-way to her, alarmed when he saw he was too late. 

Shit. 

“Lady Hawke!” Willem squeaked. Hawke wondered if he’d hit manhood yet. “I’ve been looking all over for you.” 

“Willem,” Hawke said through the best fake smile she could muster. “How very nice to see you.” 

The music began again, a quick tune; more Fereldan than Orlesian, as the music selections had been thus far. Willem had already offered his hand and it would be too rude to refuse in his own home. She cringed inwardly, Willem’s hand was soft and limp. She imagined other parts of him were soft and limp, too. One last desperate glance at Varric and she let herself be led across the floor. 

Willem was clumsy, and though Hawke was not a particularly skilled dancer herself, she ended up having to lead. She avoided his eyes, which she could feel plastered to her nose, instead looking for Varric’s as they turned across the floor. 

“I would very much like to call on you, my lady,” Willem said. When she didn’t respond he continued. “My mother says our families have always been close and it will be a most advantageous match when we marry. Mother has been looking into available properties in tow—” 

“ _When?_ ” Hawke sputtered. “Excuse me, Willem. I don’t recall agreeing to marry you. I don’t even recall a _proposal_.” 

“But,” Willem was confused, brain working to catch up on its own without his mother there to tell him what to do. “Wasn’t it your mother’s wish that we marry?” 

“I don’t care if it’s the bloody _Maker’s_ wish that we marry,” Hawke hissed, dropping all proper pretenses. Willem’s eyes widened with fear and their steps halted in the middle of the floor. “It is not _mine_.” 

“M-Mother said—” he stuttered. 

Hawke felt the line she had crossed. She took a breath and put the mask back in place. “Frankly, Serah, I am forever insulted that you would make such an assumption without even pretending to go through the courting motions. You have caused me great injury.” 

“My lady, I—I never meant to insult,” Willem said, realizing his mistake after being beaten over the head with it. _Maker_ , was he dull. 

“Excuse me, Messeres,” Varric’s smooth voice cut off the boy’s whining. Hawke didn’t often forget that she loved his voice, but there were times when she thought that it may just be the best one she’d ever heard. This was one of those times. “May I cut in?” 

Varric didn’t wait for a response, reaching out for Hawke’s hand, only to find it already reaching for his. There was an audible gasp from the closest couples, but she didn’t care. She was so relieved she could have kissed him right there. He led her away from Willem to another corner of the dance floor, fingers brushing over her knuckles. The difference between his hands and Willem’s was striking—rough, firm, and warm where Willem’s were the complete opposite. 

Hawke was used to adjusting her strides to Varric’s and fell into step with him easily as he led them through the song. He was better at this than she’d expected and she couldn’t help the stupid grin that spread across her face. The hand on the small of her back was impossibly warm through the thin material of her dress. She’d had only a single glass of wine and yet her peripheral vision was fuzzy. The lights of the room swam and blurred around her with every twirl until Varric’s face was the only thing in focus. 

“My hero,” she said with enough irony to keep it from sounding sappy. Varric squeezed her hand and smirked. 

“It’s only fair,” he mused. “I save you from unpleasant marriage proposals. You save me from spiders, raiders, the undead, and various other crazy things that try to kill me on a daily basis. Though, to be fair, most of that is your fault.” 

“And you had _no_ part in talking me up so much that I had to fight the Arishok in single combat to save the city, become its Champion, and get stuck dealing with stuffy noble parties on the regular?” 

“Hardly,” Varric scoffed. “I mean, maybe if you squint really hard.” 

“I’m squinting real hard right now and I can _almost_ see through your bullshit.” 

Varric ducked his face in a cackle. Hawke grinned at the top of his head, but turned away before he could see it. 

“After that, I think I’ve effectively tarnished your reputation,” Varric mused, watching as many of the other couples on the dance floor cast odd glances at them. 

Hawke snorted. “When have I ever given you the impression that I give a nug’s ass about my reputation?” 

“Beg pardon, Messere.” Varric bowed his head mockingly. “Just thought that I’d try to save you the trouble of a scandal, is all.” 

“Of course there’s scandal. _I’m_ involved.” 

Varric laughed again, low and rough. He was laughing an awful lot tonight. How many drinks _had_ he had after she'd been pulled away by Lady Reinhardt? 

“They’d be less scandalized if they knew we’d stolen from almost every prissy noble bastard here.” She cast her eyes about the room, lingering on a select few as she reminisced the items taken. “Though if you really want to cause a scandal, I’m in.” Hawke raised an eyebrow suggestively. 

Varric laughed. “I’m afraid I don’t perform well for crowds.” 

“Says the storyteller.” She nudged his hip with hers. 

The song ended and they bowed to each other. As they walked off the dance floor, Hawke saw Lady Reinhardt waiting by the drinks and turned on her heel, tugging Varric along abruptly. He followed quickly, feeling her tension and responding without question. Another quick tune began, purely Fereldan, and Hawke led Varric through the steps. Little nudges and tugs helped guide him along until he caught on and was able to lead. 

“I have to admit, Hawke,” he said with some amusement, looking up at her when he had gotten the hang of the steps, “I would never have pegged you for a dancer.” 

“Mother made us learn,” Hawke said. “I think she expected us to return to Kirkwall and rejoin high society, so we had to be prepared.” 

“She wasn’t wrong,” Varric chuckled. 

“No she wasn’t, though I think she anticipated returning earlier.” Her eyes flitted across the other faces on the dance floor with a wry grin. “She always said it was how the wealthy flirted. That a poor dancer would never find a good spouse.” 

“Sounds a bit too much like a trashy romance,” Varric said. 

“You _would_ know about those.” She smirked at the unimpressed downturn of his lips. “It’s particularly funny because my father was a _terrible_ dancer. Mother was an excellent of example of ‘do as I say, not as I do’.” 

Varric laughed, the motion making his hand tug at her waist and pull her closer for a moment. Her spine tingled and she found herself wishing, not for the first time that night, that her dress weren’t in the way. More-than-friendly thoughts aside, Hawke was having more fun than she’d thought she would as she and Varric avoided Lady Reinhardt and her son. Varric swung her around the room with the other dancers, making idle remarks about the attendees and keeping several couples between them and Willem at all times. Hawke _might_ have leaned in a bit closer than necessary whenever he spoke—but, in her defense, the room was loud. The room was loud and Varric inhaled sharper than usual when she leaned in and she delighted to hear it. 

And somehow, despite the height difference and Hawke’s mild taunting, they didn’t stumble once. 

When it ended, there was no sign of Lady Reinhardt or Willem and they could finally make their way to the side of the room. Varric brought her a flute of champagne and they leaned against the wall—and each other—for breath. They didn’t dance again, opting instead to continue the running commentary of the nobles on the dance floor that didn’t end until the party had thinned out significantly. They left once there weren’t enough bodies to block the sight of them from the lady of the house. 

The cool air felt wonderful after the ballroom packed full of bodies that they’d endured for hours. Hawke leaned on Varric as they walked, her arm linked in his. They arrived at her estate without any encounters from the gangs that prowled Kirkwall’s streets at night. Hawke pretended to sort through the keys on her ring as she debated what she wanted to do. Varric’s hand had moved from her arm to her lower back, warm and friendly, but she didn’t want friendly. Denial had finally reached its end and she was ready to risk what they had. She just had to see if Varric had steeped himself in as much denial as she had these past years. 

Hawke wanted more. More than friendly, more than flirting, _more_. All of their dancing around each other so far—and not the literal dancing—had only served to make her more curious. She wondered if he maintained that insufferable smirk even in bed or if he left it at the door; what his calloused hands would feel like against her bare skin; if his silver tongue persisted between the sheets, or if the ever-abundant stream of words finally dried up and it could be put to better use. 

“Want to come in?” she asked, turning her key in the lock and opening the door. The stream of light from inside made the stones of the street glow beneath their feet and reflected in Varric’s eyes. It was almost romantic. 

“Thanks, but I think I should head home,” Varric said. She knew he wouldn’t take her up on the offer; there was too much tension between them for him to take it as a simple friendly request. 

“That’s probably best.” Hawke wasn’t going to let him off that easily. She had her mind set on this now, and by the Maker, she was going to see it through. “I can’t get out of this dress soon enough. Though, without Orana’s help it’ll take an hour.” 

Varric swallowed and looked down the street. While he avoided looking at her, Hawke turned to face him and bent at the waist. Her movement made his eyes dart to hers and widen, but he didn’t move. She stopped an inch from his mouth and made sure to meet his eyes, heard the sharp inhale, felt his breath ghost over her lips…and kissed his cheek. 

“Thank you for a lovely evening, Varric,” she said, straightening. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

She left him wide-eyed and speechless, closing the door behind her. She was fairly certain he would have come in if she’d pushed, but she wanted to make sure he wanted this, too. Hawke headed up to her room, undressed, and got into bed with nothing more than her thoughts of Varric and her hand. 

Varric stood outside the door for ten full minutes, mouth agape and brain struggling to comprehend what had nearly happened. He was frozen, torn between wanting to either follow Hawke inside and ravish her, or go home with his tail between his legs to shamefully take himself in hand. He had almost leaned in— _wished_ he had—and that was what finally sent him marching off to the Blooming Rose. 

Varric was no stranger to the Rose. There was a lovely dwarven woman with whom he was intimately familiar, but she wasn’t who he searched for tonight. The woman he was looking for was named Marian. She was from Rivain, had a great sense of humor, and, after an incident with some handcuffs hopelessly tangling in her hair, looked enough like Hawke that he could work this off without making their friendship awkward. Well, any _more_ awkward. He had been trying not to made it weird and doing an admittedly poor job of it. Varric would be lying if he said he hadn’t been distracted by _what ifs_ when it came to his best friend. What if he didn’t leave a gentleman-like space between them when she tried to whisper in his ear? What if she stayed the night? What if he hadn’t stopping kissing her that one night over a Maker-damned year ago? What if, what if, what if… 

Marian had been busy since Hawke’s defeat of the Arishok. Every poor sap could have his wet dreams about the Champion come partially true for a measly ten sovereigns, and now Varric could count himself among them. Marian was free at such a late hour and more than happy to fill the void. Ever the pleaser, she even painted her nose with a streak of red, but Varric asked her to wash it off; he couldn’t see Hawke’s trademark on her stand-in. Just enough similarities to get this off his chest and get _him_ off. 

_Niamh_ fell from his lips by accident, but after the first utterance her name was a spell and he was powerless to stop it.

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What we have here is a failure to communicate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be a quick, three page vignette to give me time to work on the next monster chapter, but I have no self-control and it more than doubled. I have now split this story into two files because my computer can't handle it anymore as one.

“Hawke,” Varric said. 

“What.” A statement, not a question. Every part of her oozed boredom: the crossed arms, the cocked hip, the unfocused eyes surveying the people milling about. It was a warm day and Hawke tugged at the collar of her high-necked blouse before sliding her hand under it to rub at her neck. After a moment of consideration, she undid the top button. 

Varric swallowed and tried to remember what he was going to say. 

“Do you realize how garish that outfit is?” 

“Varric, in all the time you’ve known me what makes you think garish _wouldn’t_ appeal to me?” 

He hummed and cocked his head in concession. 

“Besides,” she continued, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye, “that’s pretty rich coming from the guy who keeps his chest on display all the time.” 

“This is the first time I’ve heard you complain.” 

“Oh, I’m not complaining,” Hawke said, deliberately raking her eyes down his open shirt. 

Varric grinned, elbowing her and turning his eyes back to the crowd. He pointedly ignored the brush of her hip against his hand when she shifted her weight to her other leg. 

They watched Fenris return from what appeared to be another unsuccessful attempt to find a key to the Prosper estate. 

“If one more person assumes I’m a servant I’ll—” Fenris bit out through gritted teeth. 

“No fisting,” Hawke said. Varric coughed out something that sounded like ‘phrasing’. “Well, that’s between you and Isabela. I’m not trying to judge her proclivities. Or yours, for that matter.” 

“ _Hawke_.” Fenris’s ears turned red and he looked as though he was seriously considering tearing out _her_ heart. 

“Okay, no _chest_ fisting. Not yet anyway.” She turned to Tallis, who looked on the exchange with thinly veiled disgust. “We _will_ be killing things, yes?” 

“The wyverns weren’t enough for you?” 

“I don’t think you understand how much I dislike Orlesians. I’m Fereldan, remember?” 

Tallis sighed. She was surprisingly easy to bother for a Qunari—all the more fun for Hawke. “If everything goes according to plan, we shouldn’t have to kill anyone else.” 

“Good for us that nothing ever goes according to plan.” 

Tallis rolled her eyes and began walking away. “We need to find out who has the key. Come on.” 

“Have I mentioned how much I regret this?” she remarked dryly to Varric. 

“Only a dozen or so times.” 

“I find repetition to be an effective tool.” 

“Ah, that explains some things.” 

Hawke chuckled, finding it passed her lips easier these days. Isabela’s return a few weeks before had certainly lifted her spirits, even though tension simmered beneath their joking and drinking. (Tension that, thankfully, didn’t reflect in the first trim Isabela gave her.) Every attempt to bring up what had driven Isabela away nearly a year ago was met with, at best, a cold change of topic. At worst, Isabela left the tavern and wasn’t seen for three days. Part of the reason Hawke had agreed to check out Edge’s tip was to keep herself from driving Isabela off again with her well-meaning attempts to fix things between them. 

And her mood persisted despite her failed attempts to seduce her best friend, just with some added sexual tension. Niamh Hawke was bad at many things—penmanship, Diamondback, propriety—but getting people to sleep with her was not one of them. It was taking much longer than she’d anticipated. After the ball she’d figured a week or two would have been enough to get things rolling, but a month had passed and there was no sign of her efforts having _any_ effect on Varric. In fact, she’d been unable to tell what was going on with him in general. She wasn’t used to it and she certainly didn’t like it. 

Not that this had dampened her efforts. Each failure was an invitation to try harder, to be just a little more brazen. Anything she could twist to sound dirty, she twisted. Anytime there was an opportunity to lean _just so_ , giving Varric a clear view down her shirt, she took it. She really wanted to wait naked in his suite and force this, but surprisingly, she was having too much fun trying to torture him (and herself). Masochism came to Hawke almost as easily as her ability to be entertained. Entertainment was currently winning, though she was balancing on a fine line between that and dragging Varric into a dark corner and jumping him. 

“No more jobs from friends of yours with names like _Edge_.”

“I thought you wanted to get away from Kirkwall for a while.” Varric adjusted his jacket; he wore the nice one from the ball. It was sleeker than his usual one, less sturdy, but it did wonderful things for his shoulders. “Think of it as a vacation.” 

“No vacation should include Orlesians. Every time Prosper opens his mouth I want to shove my fist in it.” 

“What is it with you and fisting today?” 

The lapel on his coat was wrinkled—that wouldn’t do. Hawke swiveled and stood in front of him, hands reaching out toward his chest. Varric’s brows shot up to his hairline as she stepped closer, hands straightening and smoothing the fabric. She thought she heard his breath hitch. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” 

“On second thought, no, I wouldn’t,” Varric said. He cleared his throat and Hawke stepped out of his space again, letting them both turn back to the crowd before them. 

It certainly was an impressive gathering. He’d noted several members of Ferelden’s bannorn, as well as numerous high-ranking nobles from Kirkwall. Lady Elegant sat alone on the edge of the fountain, eyes occasionally drifting to their leader; she clearly had something to discuss with Hawke, though more likely than not it would be gossip. There was a red-headed woman sauntering along the edges of the crowd whose sweet face was a nearly perfect mask for her piercing eyes, which lingered on Hawke far more often than Varric liked. And Seneschal Bran had invited Serendipity rather than his wife; Varric would have to ask the elf about it later when he visited the Rose. 

Oh yes, he was still frequenting Marian at the Blooming Rose more nights than not. What he’d originally hoped would be a one-time thing to sate his overly-friendly urges toward Hawke had instead completely taken over his thoughts. Part of him didn’t want to ruin a good thing with sex; another part wondered if sex could make a good thing even better. Neither of their track records instilled him with optimism for the latter, but _what if_. The need to know what her skin felt like was overwhelming. Did her breathless laugh persist in bed? Did she take the lead, or was the bedroom perhaps the one place she preferred to follow? 

Maker’s breath, he was sounding more like a trashy romance novel every day. 

Well, that’s what he got for pointedly denying every wayward thought he’d had toward Hawke over the last few years. And as if regular visits to the Rose weren’t bad enough, Varric found himself taking his cock in hand moments after Hawke left him for the evening and bringing himself to climax with the mere thought of her. The winks she tossed in his direction when they shared their private jokes. The brief glimpses of cleavage when she leaned forward. Her voice, breathy and low, in his ear. The fact that she was always, _always_ touching him. It was pathetic. 

If Varric didn’t know better he’d say Hawke was provoking him on purpose; it did sound like something she’d do to amuse herself. The haze clouding his mind made it hard to tell if she was actually tossing him sly glances when she thought he wasn’t looking, or if they were just a figment of his imagination. Whatever was going on was driving Varric to his wit’s end. He told himself that he was torn between wanting to satisfy this curiosity or leaving things as they were, but the truth was that he had already made up his mind. So here he was, willingly putting his closest friendship at risk while said friend went about seemingly oblivious to his struggle. She was going to catch him sooner or later, either by noticing his staring or running into him at the Rose, where she, too, was a frequent guest. He tried not to imagine her coming across him with the worker who looked just like her. 

Irritation crossed Hawke’s face briefly as Tallis approached. If Varric had known ahead of time that Edge’s tip involved a Qunari, he’d have turned it down on the spot. Tallis may not have horns like the rest of them, but even with her reservations she was clearly in it deep. Hawke was more annoyed than he’d ever seen her, antagonizing the elven woman in retaliation at every opportunity. As someone who generally didn’t have her shit together and tried to hide it as best she could, Hawke could recognize it fairly easily in others. Tallis did _not_ have her shit together.

 Once, Tallis had made the mistake of flirting in jest to ease the tension between them. Hawke stepped into the shorter woman’s personal space, bent until their faces were almost touching, and said something too low for Varric or Fenris to hear. Whatever it was had caused Tallis to pale and cease speaking to her unless absolutely necessary. 

He’d forgotten that Hawke could be so intimidating. Threats of bodily harm weren’t needed in Hightown—not as much as they were in Lowtown, at least—leaving Hawke to be her usual corny, sarcastic self. Now, the cold anger simmering beneath the surface whenever Tallis got too close was terrifying. Also a little hot. Varric casually stuffed his hands in his pockets in case he needed to readjust for the tenth time today. _Pathetic._  

“Prosper’s son may have the key,” Tallis trailed off. “Seduction, perhaps?” 

“I never mix business and pleasure,” Hawke said. 

“So all those late nights at the Rose…?” Fenris drawled. 

“Sometimes business is _long_ and _hard_ ,” she said with a theatrical lilt.

Fenris made a sound of disgust. 

“Do you hear yourself when you speak?” Varric said conversationally. 

“I try not to.” 

“ _I’ll_ go,” Tallis ground out, leaving if only to get away from Hawke for a few minutes. 

“Varric,” Hawke said once Tallis was out of earshot. She already had his attention, but she tugged his sleeve anyway. “I got the key off one of the passing servants, but we’re not telling Tallis until she seduces Prosper’s son.” 

Fenris gave a nod of approval, his mouth tugging up at the corner in a rare show of amusement. 

“Now, now, Hawke. Would it kill you to play nice?” 

Hawke rolled her eyes and strolled away to join Lady Elegant, muttering under her breath in a clear mockery of Varric’s voice. _“Be nice to the Qunari, Hawke. It’s not like that’s ever backfired in your face before, Hawke. What’s another near-death experience, Hawke?”_

Fenris chuckled and Varric shot him a dirty look. 

“I think she intended you to hear that,” Fenris said, smirking. 

“No shit,” Varric grumbled and stalked off to get himself a drink. He paused and grabbed a second glass. 

Somehow, this did absolutely nothing to deter his thoughts from their overly-friendly trajectory. Her outfit was the biggest deterrent, and honestly it just made him want to see it on the floor. Preferably in pieces. Those leggings were far too tight to leave him able to think clearly, especially since his height gave him the perfect vantage point to stare at her backside. As he watched her exchange with Lady Elegant she undid another button, idly plucking the front of her shirt a few times to cool herself off.

She had to be doing this on purpose. Not even Hawke could be _this_ clueless, could she? 

Hawke parted from Lady Elegant with an embrace and a well-heeded warning to avoid the De Launcets, and returned to Fenris and Varric. She saw Tallis coming back and let out an exasperated sigh. Varric brushed her hip with his hand, just a graze, and her reaction was immediate. Not startled or sudden, but a slow, automatic shift of all of her attention to him. It started with the slow roll of her hips, then the dip of her head, until her eyes finally dropped to meet his and Tallis was forgotten.

Maker’s breath, were they always like this? He was so hyper-aware of everything between them now because he was trying _not_ to be, but _shit_. All of his hesitations, everything he was holding back to avoid another ruined relationship seemed futile. 

He wordlessly handed her the second glass of wine and took a long draught from his own to hide his averted eyes. 

“Why, thank you, Varric,” she said. “You always know what I need.”

“It’s why you keep me around,” he said, grinning back at her. 

“He was too hung up on the servant get-up to fall for the flirting,” Tallis said, frustrated with their lack of progress. “But he didn’t have the key, regardless.” 

“Oh,” Hawke said, feigning forgetfulness and taking the key out of her pocket. “I got it off a servant.” 

Tallis stared for a long moment. “When were you going to tell me?” 

“Eventually,” Hawke said with a smirk. “If you weren’t so busy trying to get with that sleaze. I tried to tell you earlier, but you were so eager! I didn’t want to spoil your fun.” 

Tallis looked like she would have killed Hawke right there if she didn’t still need their help. “Fine. Great. I’m going to check that the coast is clear and we can get this over with.” 

They watched Tallis walk off, Hawke still frustrated despite having the upper hand. She had crossed her arms again and the tension in her shoulders caused her arms to push her bosom up. It was distracting.

“Hawke, that get-up is truly terrible,” Varric said, flinching once the words left his mouth. He didn’t need Hawke knowing how much he’d been staring. 

“This is the sixth time you’ve made me aware,” she said dryly. “I think I got the point.” 

“I’m testing out your theory that repetition is effective,” he said, hoping he sounded casual. “You really didn’t have _anything_ else? I’ll even help you mug someone so you can steal their clothes.” 

Hawke’s brows furrowed briefly before she slowly turned to face him. He didn’t like that smirk. 

“You seem _awfully_ intent on getting me out of my clothes, Varric.” 

His mouth went dry. Fenris wasn’t even paying attention, but Tallis had returned and saved him the trouble of thinking of a suitable retort. 

“Let’s go,” Tallis ordered. Upon seeing Varric and Fenris following she added, “Uh-uh, you two have to stay.” 

“What if we run into trouble?” Hawke asked, clearly not a fan of this plan. 

“We’ll deal with it.” 

Hawke gave her a hard look before turning to them. “You two lay low. I’ll finish this quickly.” 

They nodded and watched the two women enter the estate.

“Drinks?” Varric suggested. 

“Thought you’d never ask,” Fenris said. 

*** 

Hawke rejected Tallis’s proposal to sneak through the estate, opting instead to take out as many of Prosper’s guards as she could. When said guards captured them, thanks to Tallis’s (unsurprisingly) bad information, they were escorted rather roughly down to the dungeons. Probably due to taking out so many of their comrades. Hawke took it in gleeful stride, much to the chagrin and guilt of her companion. If only Varric and Fenris knew where they were, she’d have nothing to worry about. 

“You’re angry, aren’t you?” Tallis said hesitantly. 

“Oh, no,” Hawke said lightly, pacing the cell slowly. It was surprisingly warm for a dungeon and she debated whether or not to remove her vest. “This is pretty much how I expected things to go.” 

“I _am_ sorry. This didn’t work out like I’d planned. Obviously.” Tallis let out a self-deprecating snort of laughter. She was trying the humor angle again. Cute. 

“Whatever.” Hawke waved the elven woman off, shifting her attention to the cell’s lock. “I’m sure you’ll tell me what’s eating you up inside regardless of how little I care, so go ahead.” 

Tallis gave her a hard to read look and proceeded to try to gain Hawke’s sympathy anyway. With a roll of her eyes Hawke shrugged the striped vest off, undid more buttons of her blouse than earlier (when she’d been trying to get a rise out of Varric), and rolled up the sleeves. She removed the lockpick set she’d hidden in her breastband, sparing a glance for the discarded vest on the floor. It _was_ garish, wasn’t it? 

Tallis was still talking behind her. Hawke tuned her out once again and went to work on the lock. 

“Can we go now?” she said, cutting Tallis off mid-sentence with the sound of the lock clicking open. 

They escaped, Tallis in a much more agitated state than Hawke, and meandered through the maze of tunnels until they happened upon Varric and Fenris. 

“Hawke!” Varric exclaimed. “Wasn’t sure we’d find you down here.” 

“You mean you _didn’t_ expect to find me in the dungeon?” she chuckled. 

Varric’s gaze drifted lower and Hawke remembered the state of her shirt. She was vaguely aware of Fenris handing over her armor and weapons while she watched Varric’s reaction. Tallis moved to one of the cells to change back into her own, but Hawke had never been modest; she began shucking her finery where she stood. Fenris rolled his eyes and turned away, readjusting his gauntlets, but Varric remained frozen. He was treated to an eyeful, made more uncomfortable by Hawke’s frequent eye contact. It wasn’t until she’d slipped out of her trousers that he was able to turn away with an unmistakable blush. 

Hawke smiled wickedly. _Finally_ , she was getting to him. 

Then Varric surprised her. She was bent at the waist, hiking up her leather trousers and about to let out another snappy comment to provoke him, when he turned back to her and stepped forward. Eyes unreadable, he ran a hand through her hair and smoothed the fly-aways from when she had pulled her shirt over her head. The brush of his nails against her scalp made her inhale sharply and sent a shiver down her spine. His fingers brushed her jaw as he tucked the hair behind her ear and she instinctively leaned into them. Abruptly, he pulled away, as if just realizing that Hawke’s pants were still around her knees. She was too staggered to manipulate her expression into the gloating one she wanted, but she made it as cautiously blank as she could and lifted it to Varric’s own guarded, calculating gaze. It was a standoff neither were willing to lose. That Varric needed to guard his expression at all was a success, and she resumed pulling up her pants. 

“Well!” she said, finally finished dressing and straightening up with her hands on her hips. “Shall we go kill this Orlesian bastard?” 

They did, and had a surprising amount of fun. Well, at least Hawke did. The explosions that Prosper detonated were less fun, but outsmarting his stupid wyvern and sending him over the cliff were well worth suffering through the whole day’s bullshit for. 

“Stupid turnip!” he shouted as she glanced over the edge of the cliff where he dangled by a hand. 

“That’s the best you can come up with? Seriously?” Hawke mocked. 

Then Prosper lost his grip and tumbled down the mountain, leaving red imprints on the rocks he collided with. 

“Looks like the duke,” Hawke drawled, turning to Fenris and Varric, “has fallen from grace.” 

They both groaned and rolled their eyes. 

Music to her ears. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think you guys understand how much I love slow burns.


	15. Chapter 15

Hawke sauntered through Varric’s door one evening at the most inconvenient time possible. It crossed his mind that he should have had the prudence to lock it, but that had never kept her out before and it certainly wouldn’t now when she so clearly had an agenda. 

He was attending to business that he’d been putting off for far too long, even for him. Merchant’s Guild bullshit, bribes that needed upping thanks to Daisy’s midnight wanderings, an official Cease and Desist for the printing of _Hard in Hightown_ from the Kirkwall Guard (Aveline), and a pile of missives (of varying importance) from his contacts that he hadn’t looked at in _weeks_. The Duke Prosper debacle could only be blamed so much; the real distraction causing the backlog in paperwork was of a more _personal_ nature. Swallowing the surge of indignity, Varric grumbled under his breath and focused on his accounts again. 

Unsurprisingly, this did naught to deter Hawke. She sat next to him, dragging the chair marginally closer to his, and leaned toward him with her chin in hand, staring pointedly as she waited for his attention. 

“Hawke,” he finally muttered and sighed. For once, he actually needed to get this done and he was operating under an unusually long burst of productivity that didn’t need further setbacks from his intrusive friend. 

“Varric.”   

The innocent lilt to her voice immediately set him on edge. As if her staring wasn’t enough. It was the _I’ve got an idea_ tone; the _What could possibly go wrong?_ tone. Usually he was a fan of it, but he didn’t have the time for trouble today. Some mess was about to be dropped in his lap and he could only clench his teeth in hopes that it wouldn’t take up the whole day. 

“If you’re trying to fluster me, Rivaini beat you to it ten minutes ago.” His ledgers could attest to that; she’d covered half a page in genitalia before he’d realized. Another setback he hadn’t needed. Why were all the women in his life so irritating? 

“Good thing I’m prepared, then.” 

“Lucky me,” he said so dryly that he thought he could actually _hear_ how much he needed a drink. 

“I heard something interesting today,” she said airily. 

“Oh? Just the one thing?” He hadn’t looked up since her initial entrance. Usually such a lack of attention would rush whatever she had planned; it was worrying that she was still taking her time. 

“It’s a _very_ interesting thing, to be fair. From a friend at the Rose.” 

He didn’t like where this was going. Varric’s trips to the Rose to work off his attraction to Hawke hadn’t abated in the least, and he wasn’t exactly eager to hear about her own visits there. He was still operating from an overly-long streak of luck wherein she hadn’t discovered him with her look-alike. Yet. 

“Is this a friend or a _friend?_ ” 

“Well, both. You know the woman there from Rivain? Dark hair, dark skin? Pretty hazel eyes?” She picked at the dirt under her nails and, too casually, added, “Kind of looks like _me_ actually, ever since that handcuff incident took off most of her hair.” 

“Marian?” The name slipped without thinking and his heart beat faster in his chest. Of _course_ Hawke would find the one person in Kirkwall who could pass for her and then _sleep_ with her. Sodding Ancestors, that meant they were sleeping with the same person. Wonderful. As if his life wasn’t weird enough. 

“That’s the one! She told me about one of her newest customers. She’s had a lot of late thanks to the whole Champion thing, but _this_ particular man stood out to her because he’s already a customer there.” 

“So, we’re ignoring the fact that you just admitted to sleeping with someone who looks like you?” 

She waved her hand impatiently. “Details, details. She says that this gentleman has never requested anyone other than dwarven women in all of his occasional forays to the Rose, but he came and asked specifically for _her_ one night, and ever since has been one of her regulars.” 

Varric crushed the urge to look up, continuing his writing instead and hoping that his pen was forming actual words. Something in his chest clenched. 

“Now, Marian says she’s seen him before. With _me_ , if you can believe it. And such a sudden change in preference is odd, wouldn’t you say?” 

His hand stilled without his permission, eyes boring into the table. 

“By her own description he’s a very handsome dwarf, though the only one she knows without a beard.” 

When he finally risked a glance up, Hawke looked positively predatory. He wondered if the panic was evident on his face, but she knew either way. Hawke always knew. Somewhere in his last few scraps of calm thought he wondered if she’d been pushing for this. 

“I’m flattered, Varric.” 

_Shit_.

All he betrayed of an involuntary flinch were his eyes, closed for a moment too long. “Shit” became a mantra in his head, repeating itself over and over with increasing volume as he grasped at his thoughts for an escape, only to find them too frantic to focus. In a last ditch effort, Varric tried to school his expression and look as unimpressed as he could, but Hawke had always been better at it. 

He wanted to wipe that smug grin off her face so badly. Without much purpose, he broke away from her probing gaze and flipped through the pile of missives in front of him, faking indifference even though he knew it was too late. He’d been discovered, and all the intel at his fingers wasn’t going to change the fact that _she knew_. 

A small piece of parchment caught his eye. It was the Blooming Rose’s stationary, folded many times over and dated several weeks back. His eyes flitted over the short message in disbelief. 

_Nothing of note this week, but something you might find entertaining in these crazy times. Forgot to mention it with all the shit happening lately. Regular who sees me. Noblewoman who’s got a scar across her nose—might be the Champion, now that I think about it. Knows you, apparently, since she never stops screaming your name._

_\--D_  

_Well, shit. Talk about timing_ , was about the extent of what his brain could process once the rush of blood through his veins began to take a decidedly southward turn. 

“You know, it’s funny.” He cleared his throat and continued as casually as he could manage while he tried to absorb what he had just read, “I’ve also received some interesting information from one of my own Rose contacts.” 

Her face froze in its smugness, grin turned wooden. 

“Does the name Denier ring a bell?” 

She held her breath for a beat too long. 

“I’m sure you’d know him if you saw him. His family does business with the Guild. We go way back.” 

Panic fluttered across her face before she could control it. It was immensely satisfying that, for once, _he_ was the one flustering _her_. 

Hawke hadn’t thought this through. This was something she’d planned for, _hoped_ for, but like so many other things in her life she had never expected to actually get to this point; hadn’t believed that she’d ever take the chance. And above all other doubts, she never thought that Varric would provoke her right back. In her mind she’d seen him laugh good-naturedly and shrug the possibility off. Then he’d order them a round or four of the Hanged Man’s strongest stuff and they’d drink until they forgot all about it by morning. Awkwardness avoided. Friendship saved.

“He said this Hightown woman’s been requesting him for a while now. Very distinctive face. Funny thing is, she’s been screaming someone else’s name.” Varric leaned forward conspiratorially, eyes locked with hers. 

Even if she’d wanted to she couldn’t have looked away. His voice dropped in timbre to match the one he used when he recounted their adventures to the crowds at the Hanged Man, drawing everyone around in to hang on his every word. She was as powerless to it now as she was when he wove his stories. Her stomach didn’t just drop, it plummeted, churning all the while with a mix of dread, anxiety, and something bordering on arousal.

 Shit. 

“ _My_ name.” 

_Shit_. 

Silence bore down on them, long and heavy. They were both reeling, hands forcibly laid bare by the other. Backed into a corner with no room left to step away from the line they’d been so close to crossing for _ages_. 

“Now what?” he asked helplessly, no trace left of his brief moment of confidence. 

“I’m…not sure.” Hawke laughed nervously. She wished she hadn’t sat right next to him. Wished she’d sat _closer_. Her fingers tapped at the tabletop in agitation until Varric grabbed her hand. They both stared at it. He wasn’t wearing gloves and the heat of his skin against her own was distracting. 

“Hawke…I don’t know if—I’m not—I _can’t_ —” He stopped in frustration, letting go of her hand to drag it down his face. 

“I’m not trying to make anything of this,” she said as calmly as she could manage. With a forced chuckle she added, “I only get in _volved_ , remember?” 

“I’m not sure if I can be in that sort of…relationship, Hawke. Besides, the height difference? It’d just be weird.” 

“Marian,” she said flatly, unimpressed. 

He flinched, then grinned sheepishly. “Bad lie, huh?” 

“Terrible lie.” 

“Right. Worth a shot.” 

“We can’t ignore it anymore. _I_ can’t, at least.” 

“Maker, it’s been inevitable, hasn’t it?” he said, more to himself than her. 

“Ever since you kissed me, yes, I’d say so,” she said with a wry grin. “Though if we’re being honest, I wasn’t sure if we’d ever get to this point. You’ve been remarkably thick.” 

It took a moment for her words to sink in. 

“Wait, you mean…?” He trailed off staring at her in disbelief. “You were doing it all on _purpose_? The looks? The—the _cleavage_?” 

“Of course,” she said with a shrug. “Though you barely even noticed—” 

“Thank the Maker!” Varric laughed, sighing in relief and sitting back in his chair. “I thought it was all a figment of my lust-fueled imagination.” The relief turned to suspicion and he continued in a much crosser tone. “All on purpose. _Purposely_ messing with my emotions.” 

“Not your emotions, your cock,” Hawke clarified. Her lips took on the roguish grin that suited her so well. “ ‘Lust-fueled imagination’? Do tell.” 

Varric glared, though the effect was quickly lost in the face of her sly grin.   

“So, no strings attached?” 

“Not a one.” 

“Doesn’t mean anything,” he said slowly, testing the feel of the words on his tongue. 

“Doesn’t mean anything,” she confirmed. “Unless you’re still looking for a romance for that damned book of yours.” 

Varric chuckled. The smile still hadn’t left his lips when he looked down, but it turned wistful. 

“We won’t be able to go back,” he said to the table. 

That had never been a problem for Hawke before—her relationships with Isabela and Fenris could attest to that. But there was something in his expression; a weight behind his words that Hawke could only guess at. Stories untold, and a past that wasn’t as well-known to her as hers was to him. So for once, she bit her tongue. 

She looked down at her hands, wringing them over the tabletop. “Like I said, it doesn’t have to mean anything. And Hawkes don’t fall in love, so no complications?” 

“It’ll still make things awkward.” 

“Well, _I’m_ involved. Of course, it’ll be awkward.” She gave him a lopsided smile and he, thankfully, returned it. 

“Fair point,” he said and laughed suddenly, like it surprised him. The tension in the air between them dissipated with the sound of it. 

After what seemed like an eternity he looked at her again, eyes focused on her lips. A thrill shot up her spine and it brought her back to the moment in her study over a year ago. Unlike then, Varric didn’t lean toward her in a daze and she wasn’t caught off guard. He held out his hand and she took it without hesitation. A gentle tug pulled her toward him and he guided the hand to his waist while she brought her other up to his face. She wanted to rush, to do something to satisfy the almost overwhelming buzzing beneath her skin, but she let him lead. When his other hand skimmed along her jaw, fingers coming to tangle in the hair at the back of her neck to pull her closer, he paused. 

Varric’s eyes searched hers, lips a hair’s breadth from her own as if waiting for consent. As if she hadn’t been the one pushing for this to happen. She huffed impatiently and closed the gap, smiling against his mouth in answer. She felt more than heard him chuckle as she moved to deepen the kiss. It quickly turned from slow to a heated mess of tongue and teeth, both sick of denying and wanting for so long. 

Without breaking away, Hawke crawled onto him. Of all the messes he’d expected her to drop into his lap earlier, he didn’t mind this one falling into it. Hands went everywhere, caressing, grabbing, pulling whatever was within reach. Hawke sought out his chest, running a hand through his hair before bringing it up to the back of his neck. With a bruising grip, Varric grabbed her hips and moved her further onto his lap. She rolled them and met with his nearly painful arousal, making them both gasp.                                                                                                                           

“Bed,” Varric rasped. “Now.” 

Hawke nodded, grinning crookedly and perhaps a little in disbelief. 

He followed her to the bed, kicking his boots off along the way. She faced away from him, quickly undoing the fabric belt she tied around her waist and pulling the loose shirt over her head. 

Varric swallowed hard, suddenly winded as the surge of desire left him in one fell swoop. 

Hawke was a mess of scars. Countless little nicks and scrapes that hadn’t quite healed completely. Deeper marks from blades she hadn’t dodged in time, including one instance where she’d used her forearm as a shield. Mangled flesh creeping over her shoulder from the Profane that had nearly caved in his skull all those years ago. 

The exit wound from the Arishok’s blade. 

He’d known this; he’d seen most before—many even and the time of acquisition—but this felt different, somehow. She had been broken and sewn back together so many times; taken hit upon hit to keep them—to keep _him_ —safe. How could he possibly consider himself worthy of this? Of _her_? How could he let himself become one more disappointment in her disappointing life? 

His insecurities bubbled up from where he normally kept them buried, but this time he couldn’t summon any jokes to push them back down. For the second time in his life, Varric found himself in the shadow of another woman who was capable of so much more than him. He was another thing holding Hawke back from everything she could be doing, just as he’d been a distraction to Bianca, who could’ve been a Paragon if he had just swallowed his selfishness and stopped demanding all of her pitying attention. The thought of ruining what they had now the same way he had with Bianca was suddenly one of the worst things he could think of. 

Outwardly he went through the motions, shedding his clothing and putting a knee on the bed where Hawke already lay, naked and beautiful and all for _him_. And he couldn’t do it. 

Hawke saw his hesitation, felt it in his hands when he put them on her knees. Excitement turned to confusion to understanding. 

“I…” He tried to find the words. “I…” 

“You don’t—?” She paused, biting her lip and searching his face. Realizing how distressed he was, she worked to control her own expression before he could see her disappointment. “You don’t. Right.” With a flat chuckle she added, “I imagine I don’t quite live up to the legend.” 

She tried to slip her mask back into place and failed. Ashamed of her actions and self-conscious of her nudity, she drew in on herself and moved to get up. 

“I shouldn’t have pushed you, Varric. I’m sorry. Let’s forget this ever happened.” 

She paused, waiting expectantly for him to let go of her knees so she could remove herself from this embarrassing shit show. But he was frozen and kept her legs awkwardly open in her newfound modesty. 

He’d had just as much of a hand in this as she had—more, even, after he’d kissed her so long ago. And even before that, when he’d noticed her interest and turned up his casual flirting. Because really, he’d wanted this, too. No, he didn’t deserve this—being put into a position where he could potentially pile even more problems on this wonder of a woman, his _best friend_ —but she deserved to have whatever she wanted after a lifetime of serving the needs of everyone else. And if she wanted him half as much as he wanted her, he could put his own hesitations aside. He’d been so afraid of ending up like his parents—trapped in some idealized past—that he’d inadvertently done it to himself without even realizing. So caught up in what he’d had before that he didn’t want to risk it repeating now. But he had to start living through something other than his stories. 

“Wait,” he said, gripping her knees tighter to stop her from getting up. 

“Varric, it’s fine. No worries! We can just pretend I was drunk and laugh it off in the morning,” she said with the fakest laugh he’d ever heard pass her lips. 

“No, we can’t,” he said firmly, and continued a little helplessly, “You’re right. We can’t ignore this anymore.” 

“I’m not pressuring my best friend into a romp just so I can get off.” 

“I want this, Hawke. I…want _you_.” It might have been the most honest thing he’d ever said to her, but he couldn’t dwell on that or else he might lose his nerve again. “I’m just waiting for my brain to catch up and realize that this is actually happening.” He froze. “ _Is_ this still happening?” 

He looked so stricken that she had to laugh. 

“You’re starting to sound as neurotic as me, Varric.” 

He held onto her joke like a lifeline. “What can I say? You’re starting to rub off on me.” 

“Speaking of rubbing off,” Hawke trailed off, grinning wickedly. 

Varric groaned. “I take it back! This is a mistake. I can’t sleep with someone who makes such terrible—” 

Hawke abruptly spread her legs and Varric, who had put most of his weight on them, lost his balance. He fell forward and though he put his hands out in time, they landed on either side of Hawke’s chest, bringing his face level with her breasts. 

“I call bullshit.” 

“Okay,” he said, smiling despite looking a little flustered, “you got me there.” 

He made no indication that he wanted to move and though it reassured her, she couldn’t risk continuing without knowing he was absolutely sure. She ran a hand up his chest and pushed him back up by his shoulder. “I have to know that you’re all right with this. I can’t lose you because I have questionable self-control.” 

“I’m on board,” he said, rubbing reassuring circles on her knees with his thumbs. “My…misgivings are what you’d expect them to be. I don’t want to ruin a good thing, but I’m here.” 

When his face didn’t falter, a slow smile spread across her own. Her eyes dropped down the line of his torso and she chuckled softly to herself, barely able to believe that they’d nearly stopped after being so close. It was exactly the sort of awkwardness she’d forgotten to expect. 

She turned her dark eyes up to him again, crooked smile growing, and Varric did what he’d gotten so good at the past several years—he followed her lead. She was as magnetizing as ever and he couldn’t break his gaze away, moving with her as she settled back on her elbows. Only Hawke could recover from such a setback and manage to erase his guilt at nearly ruining things. Only Hawke could once again send his blood pounding in his ears, through his veins, and steadily lower with just a slow blink from her heavy-lidded eyes. 

She raised her chin, demanding his attention so subtly and yet so imperatively. Varric leaned forward and met her lips again. It started out much more slowly than it had only minutes ago, though it seemed like nearly a lifetime had passed since. Her teeth scraped his bottom lip and he inhaled sharply. Whatever lingering hesitations he had evaporated. His hand came up to cradle her jaw as one of hers tangled in his hair, removing the tie that kept it back. 

They broke apart and he turned his attentions south, lips trailing down her neck and over her collarbone. Hawke tipped her head back and gasped softly as he moved down her body. Varric was well beyond any reluctance, but he felt driven to lose himself in pleasing her to ensure that he didn’t give himself the opportunity to overthink this again. Her eager responses certainly helped keep his mind from straying to his doubts. His breath ghosted over a nipple, waiting for her anticipating inhale before latching on. He heard the smile around her quiet moan and sucked harder, desperate to hear more; to make her cry out as loud as she did at the Rose, driven by the thought of him. 

Her fingers brushed through his hair as he kissed a trail to the other nipple, clutching him to her chest when he swirled his tongue around it. He trailed lower, pausing to smile along her ribs when she giggled before reaching her navel. Hands on the backs of her thighs, Varric kneeled at the foot of the bed and brushed the tip of his nose over her folds. 

Hawke arched off the bed with a choked gasp, hands fisted in the sheets. She let out a frustrated whine when he kissed the insides of her thighs, the junction of her thigh and hip, the mound of curls above her lips. 

“Varric,” she hissed. “This is hardly fair.” 

“No,” he mused. He dragged his tongue along her seam in a long, drawn out swipe. “I suppose it’s not.” 

She bit her lip to stifle the moan and he caught her eyes fluttering closed. “You’re the worst.” 

He chuckled and it vibrated through her cunt, sending her writhing out of his grasp. He tutted and wrapped his arms around her thighs, holding her tight on either side of where he intended on burying his face. 

“You’re too kind,” he said, smirking up at her. 

The responding purse of her lips was quickly replaced by an ‘o’ before she threw her head back again. Varric flicked his tongue over her clit, dipping in her entrance occasionally to hear her moan. Her fingers wound through his hair again, tugging him where she wanted him. Sweat rolled down her thighs over her twitching muscles. When her grip turned near-painful in its insistence, Varric latched onto her clit and sucked hard, tongue swirling around it while she tried to buck against him. 

Then he stopped abruptly, replacing his fingers where his tongue had been and moving up her body. She grabbed him immediately, face flushed and hands clutching at his back. She held him tight when he inserted a thick finger, and tighter still when a second joined it. They pumped slowly, gaining speed until he’d resumed the pace his tongue had set. His thumb brushed her clit and found a steady rhythm. Her reaction was immediate, breath hitching and hips rolling wildly. Moments later she let out a shuddering breath and her cunt clenched his fingers. She buried her face in his neck and dug her nails into his back as she rode out her orgasm, breath coming in soft gasps. 

“You know,” he said after she’d come down enough to listen. “For someone who was supposedly screaming my name at the Rose, I’m a little disappointed that you’re so quiet.” 

Hawke let out a breathless laugh and swatted his shoulder with the very little bit of energy she could muster. 

“The worst!” she groaned. 

“Hopefully not that bad,” he chuckled and got on his knees. Boneless and lazy, Hawke let him slide her back onto the pillows so he could recreate the first position they’d been in before he’d been an ass about it all. He spread her knees again, settling between them and looking to her. She hadn’t recovered yet, but she watched eagerly as he lined himself up with her entrance. If not for her flexibility, they may have run into problems; Varric was stocky and she had to spread her knees considerably for him to fit between them, but he did. He slid his tip against her folds before slowly beginning to sink in, aided by how wet she was. The heat of him alone made her have to bite her lip to stifle a moan. 

Neither could have stopped if they’d wanted to. It was the inevitable end to five years of tiptoeing around their attraction to one another, and the equally inevitable beginning of whatever would come of this, for better or for worse. A partnership-turned-friendship that had evolved into so much more than either could ever have anticipated. 

He pushed in a little at a time, giving her the chance to adjust every time she felt too tight, her walls halting the intrusion. When he fully buried himself in her at last, she grabbed his wrist like a vice—not out of pain, but out of a need to ground herself. There was still a lingering oversensitivity from her first orgasm and she breathed deeply through her nose while Varric fought to keep still until she was ready. He wasn’t the biggest she’d had, but he was the thickest and she wasn’t accustomed to being stretched so wide. 

Varric drew in a ragged breath, momentarily overcome by the heat enveloping him, and whispered reverently, “ _Niamh_.” 

Her eyes rose to his quickly in surprise and he realized he’d used her given name. 

“Can I call you Niamh?” he asked with a smirk to downplay what felt like an overstep in intimacy. Ironic, considering what they were doing. 

“Varric,” she said and laughed. The sound of his name on her breathless voice sent a fresh jolt of heat between his legs and his hips jerked once before he could help it. “You can call me whatever you like, just don’t stop.” 

So he slowly pulled out, waiting a breath before pushing back in at a pace that was maddeningly slow. A few thrusts was all she could tolerate before she got impatient, trying to rush him and grabbing his hips when he didn’t. A sharp snap of his hips cut her off before she could complain, and he resumed his leisurely pace. Again, she reached for him and again he jerked into her. He took hold of her wrists, gently but firmly pinning them to her sides and leaning forward to balance his weight. He watched her face to gauge her reaction; he couldn’t tell if it was surprise or wariness that flickered across her features, but the new angle let him thrust deeper and the look faded in favor of one of pleasure. When he tried to deepen it even more her legs got in the way, unable to bend out any further. An annoyed grumble passed his lips and he pulled out, releasing Hawke’s wrists. 

“Why are you stopping?” she panted. 

“You have too much leg.” 

“Oh, Varric,” Hawke teased. “I know it must be new for you to deal with, but I’m sure you’ll learn to please us _long-legged_ humans eventually. Don’t worry, I’m incredibly patient.” 

He raised a brow and tried not to smile. “If you’re patient, I’m the Divine.” 

“I waited over a year to get you in bed, didn’t I?” 

“ _That_ is an excellent point,” he conceded and shifted his position. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Who, me? Nothing.” 

He placed his hands on the backs of her thighs and pushed until they pressed against her chest, canting her hips up. She raised her brows and automatically moved to slide back so she could maintain leverage, but Varric shifted his weight and effectively kept her still. Again, he saw that wary look in her eyes, though she made no move to stop him—and, most telling of all, she shut up. 

“What, no snappy comment?” He chuckled, low and warm. 

“You imagine the snappiest you can think of,” she said as evenly as she could and stopped pushing against his hold. 

 Varric grinned and leaned a forearm across the backs of her legs, brought his free hand down to brush a finger through her folds—and paused. 

“Niamh.” 

“What now?” she said impatiently, willing him not to make this weird. 

“You like being held down.” 

Of course he wouldn’t phrase it as a question to preserve her dignity. And he obviously knew the answer; he must have felt how much wetter she’d gotten in just a few moments. Her eyes closed as she endured a stab of embarrassment. 

“Yes, Varric. Can we please hurry this up?” Her cheeks burned and she hoped he would chalk it up to arousal. 

“I’m not so sure you’d actually enjoy that.” He said it lightly enough, but she heard the sly lilt. 

His cock pushed into her so slowly she wanted to scream, but the position offered him a much deeper angle and a gasp was all she could manage. He pulled out completely, until the tip was barely touching her entrance, then drove all the way in and did it again. And again. And again. 

“You see, Niamh,” he continued, settling into an easy pace punctuated by the occasional quick thrust just to see her eyes widen, “I can be selfish in many ways, but never in bed.” 

Even if she had been able to break her eyes away from him she’d have _heard_ the smirk, but any retorts she could think of were cut off by the push of his weight against her. Every time he said her name her cunt clenched with a hot rush of arousal, getting considerably wetter and making it that much easier for Varric to slide into her. Judging by his soft gasp, he could tell, too. 

“And I’ll be damned if I give the _Champion_ a less-than-satisfactory time.” 

She rolled her eyes and he snapped his hips sharply again, chuckling at the comical mix of exasperation and pleasure that crossed her face. He could get used to this—sex that wasn’t desperate with the drama that came with the possibility of discovery and subsequent death; sex that was just plain fun. End of story. 

Hawke tried to watch, craning her neck around her legs. Hands beneath her thighs again, Varric pulled them apart and put them over his shoulders, leaning further over her and roughly grabbing her breast. Her keening whine nearly finished him right then. They both lowered their eyes to watch, hypnotized by the wet length of him pounding into her over and over, the wet slap of skin against skin that filled the suite. Without his voice to tease, she realized she was whimpering with each thrust and vaguely hoped it wasn’t enough to be heard in the tavern. Varric released her breast and thumbed her clit frantically. It was only then that she realized how close he was, though his sudden silence should have tipped her off sooner. He picked up the pace, setting an unforgiving one that overwhelmed her even more because she couldn’t move with him. 

“Varric,” she pleaded between thrusts. “Come on, stop teasing.” 

“Only if you ask me nicely,” he rasped, voice strained. She felt him throb inside her and wondered if he liked her voice as much as she liked his. 

She only paused for a second to swallow her pride. Meeting his eyes in a silent demand, she begged, “ _Please,_ Varric.” 

The finger on her clit circled without rhythm. His hips stuttered while her own struggled to, both aching for release. 

“At your service, messere.” 

The low, gravelly voice in her ear sent electricity surging up her spine and white light engulfed her vision. Varric kept her from bucking him off in her thrashing, but only just. Her movement dislodged the finger from her clit and it was simultaneously a relief and a loss. One of her hands clawed at the sheets while the other grabbed at his hips—there would be marks, but he was too preoccupied with his own pleasure to notice. 

He grasped her hips with both hands, pounding into her as her walls clamped down on him. Briefly, stupidly, he entertained the thought that he could hold out long enough to bring her off again. But she released the sheets and reached for the back of his head, locking eyes with him—and he was done. His eyes squeezed shut against the burst of sensations and he heard the strangled groan that left him before he could muffle it, thrusting erratically as he finally came inside her. 

Unable to support himself any longer, Varric hunched forward, weight barely balanced on the one hand he managed to throw out in time to avoid crushing Hawke. With an exhausted groan he pulled out, ducked under the leg over his shoulder, and rolled over. 

Hawke turned toward him; hair an even more disheveled mess than usual, kohl around her eyes smudged, covered in sweat, and somehow she was even more breathtaking than when she’d worn that gown to the ball. A lazy, satisfied smirk tugged at her lips and he found himself fighting against the exhausted screaming of his muscles to lean over far enough to kiss her. 

“Why didn’t we do this before?” Hawke panted and they both laughed as best as they could manage. 

“I swear I had legitimate reasons,” Varric mused, “but I can’t think of a single one at the moment.” 

Oh, he could. It took more than fantastic sex to make Varric Tethras forget his doubts. If asked, he could have provided a novel’s worth of reasons why no one should sleep with their best friend, personal references included. He’d been in an entire relationship that revolved around skirting his better logic while he was caught up in young, stupid love. But Hawke also knew why they hadn’t done this before and had asked in order to segue into normal banter once again. Varric was more than willing to play along. 

“Also, probably because I knew I’d never want to leave this bed and who would keep Kirkwall from spontaneously combusting if I did that?” Hawke added. 

Varric chuckled. “Good point.” 

Minutes passed as their breathing returned to normal and something remotely horrifying occurred to him. 

“Hey,” he said in an overly casual tone. “Generally speaking, it’s almost statistically impossible, but with our luck it’d be a definite. We should probably do something to ensure there are no, ah, little Hawkes.” 

She’d turned to him curiously, but returned her eyes to the ceiling with a dismissive expression. “That’s not an issue. Remember the whole Arishok skewering?” 

Varric rolled his eyes. “Vaguely.” 

“Anders said my _equipment_ was mincemeat and he took it out.” 

“Oh.” _Good job, Varric._ “Um…” 

“And I never intended on bringing more little Hawkes into the world, anyway. I’m not sure the world could handle it.” 

“Right,” he said quickly. An awkward silence ensued. 

“Way to ruin the afterglow, Varric.” 

His face became a mix of mortification and indignation, and Hawke cackled. 

“I’m kidding!” She ran a hand through his hair. “It’s the, what, responsible thing to do?” 

“Responsibility? Oh, you misunderstand me. I wanted to know if I had to start planning to leave Kirkwall in the middle of the night.” 

Hawke guffawed, two loud barks of laughter. It made him smile as a much more comfortable silence took its place. Varric reached for the blanket at the foot of the bed and dragged it over them both. 

“I should probably get going,” she said without making any move to refuse the blanket or get up. “Don’t want Bodahn to worry.” 

“Up to you,” Varric said and shrugged. “You’re more than welcome to stay the night.” 

“I know, but maybe we shouldn’t let this be too weird.” She let out a nervous laugh. “I’ll leave in a few.” 

*** 

Hawke woke with a start the next morning, even though she recognized her surroundings. It was by no means the first time she’d fallen asleep in Varric’s bed, but it _was_ the first time she’d awoken without any clothes on. The previous night came back to her as Varric rolled over to curl around her back. 

“Thought you weren’t staying the night,” he mumbled into her shoulder. 

“Doesn’t mean anything,” she croaked back. 

He chuckled and it vibrated in her ear, sending a shiver down her spine. A hand rubbed slow circles where it rested on her stomach and heat began to pool lazily in her belly. She shifted her hips, thighs rubbing together, and Varric pressed his face into the crook of her neck with a sharp inhale. There was a prodding between her legs as she felt him harden. With a soft moan she pushed her hips back and Varric lifted her leg. Pulling it back and hooking his knee in the crook of hers, he spread her wide and lined his cock up with her entrance. Already wet, he slid in easily. 

Varric set a lazy pace, hips rolling languidly and easing them both awake. His fingertips traced her ribs lightly, tickling and making her squirm against him. Despite Hawke’s slightly ridiculous height, she was more leg than torso and Varric had no problem reaching her neck to leave a trail of open-mouthed kisses. He controlled the pace, wrapping an arm around her chest to press her back flush against his chest, and gradually rolled his hips faster. Unable to do much from where she lay on her side, Hawke relaxed against him and let him fan the flames until she was panting. 

When it was no longer enough, Hawke tried to spur him to move faster, but Varric wouldn’t give her the leverage, snapping his hips roughly to disrupt her attempts. As they both moved with more desperation, half-awake and seeking release, Varric rolled Hawke onto her chest and straddled her thighs, effectively keeping her still while he thrust into her. She bent her arms out to the sides, hands on either side of her head to brace her against the mattress, but even after angling her hips up to ease the pressure it was the fullest she’d ever felt. And judging by the sudden halt of _his_ hips, he’d inadvertently made it more difficult for himself to last with her walls clamped tighter around him in the new position. A long, heavy exhale behind her made her smirk, knowing just how affected he was. 

Hawke gave in much quicker to Varric’s control this time. He moved tentatively at first, making sure she was comfortable (she was going to have to have a talk with him to confirm that she was _not_ fragile) before he began to thrust harder and faster into her, his hands holding tight to her upper arms to keep her in place. His breathing changed from slow and steady to quick, harsh pants as he moved more desperately. 

“If this is how you usually wake up, Varric, I imagine it’ll be harder for me _not_ to spend the night,” Hawke panted, trying to turn her head to watch him, but unable to from her position. 

“Best way to make my case,” he husked. “Is it working?” 

“I think you might be onto something.” 

“I aim to please.” 

A soft breathless laugh from beneath him made him chuckle. 

She tried to lift her hips enough to push back, but he leaned his weight further forward and planted a hand between her shoulders, keeping her down. 

“Ah! You’re a merciless tease.” 

“I don’t hear a complaint in there.” There was a wildness to his movements, pace stuttering as he tried to move faster. 

“That’s because I’m _not_ complaining.” 

She moved a hand out as best she could from where it rested, palm down on the mattress near her chin. Varric grabbed it, entwining his fingers with hers and squeezing. He made a strangled sound and she felt the tension strumming through his whole body as he strained to hold out. Hawke clenched down on him, fluttering her walls and he failed to choke down a moan, hips moving with abandon and hitting the sensitive spot in her a few time in quick succession. She moved to bury her face in the pillow, only for Varric to grab it away and toss it out of her reach, leaving her to fill the room with her cries. Stars filled her vision with each thrust and her head filled with a tingling, overwhelming rush of static that deafened her as her climax finally hit. Varric followed closely behind, flooding her cunt with heat as he came, hips stuttering a few last times as he rode out the waves and collapsed over her. 

It was a long while before either could find the desire to move. Varric lay on her back, sweaty and hot. She was content to have his weight press her into the mattress. With a groan, he pulled out slowly and the sudden emptiness after being stretched so wide for so long was a loss. 

“Now what?” he said, rolling off of her. 

“Breakfast?” 

He considered for a minute—though she was unsure if it was in regard her suggestion or if they needed to talk about _this_. 

“Breakfast sounds terrific,” he said at last. 

Hawke turned this time and saw his easy smile, immediately reassured by it. 

Whatever tension they’d prepared themselves for passed. The previous weeks, months, _years,_ in all honesty, filled with uncertainty about where they were headed seemed silly all of a sudden. Hawke was relieved to find that she didn’t suddenly feel completed or head over heels now that she’d successfully laid her best friend. And any thoughts she’d entertained about harboring a crush on him evaporated. 

For the first time in a _long_ time, Varric wasn’t watching her suspiciously out of the corner of his eye; wasn’t looking for an answer to a question that neither had the courage to ask: _What the hell were they doing?_  

The final line had been crossed. They’d had sex after years of alternately denying and encouraging their attraction to each other, and they were fine. The world hadn’t ended or fallen off its axis and they could return to business as usual. Finally. 

“I’ll go see if I can get Norah to whip something up,” he said, lifting himself with an exaggerated groan and reaching for his trousers and tunic on the floor. 

Hawke watched the muscles in his back as he pulled on the loose shirt, noticing the red marks from her nails. With a satisfied grim she stretched, back arched and eyes shutting in discomfort when she realized how much everything ached. Varric paused, eyes trailing down the length of her still-naked form. 

“You keep doing that…” he trailed off, his voice dropping in timbre. 

Hawke barked a laugh. “There’s no way you’re ready again.” 

“No, I’m definitely not,” Varric chuckled, face momentarily contorted at the thought. He spared another glance at her tits before clearing his throat and gesturing vaguely as he headed for the stairs. 

Hawke prodded at herself briefly, taking note of the bruises blooming over her hips and what felt like one between her shoulder blades. Her upper arms were tender, as well. Considering it had been such a long time coming (she snorted at the unintentional pun), it seemed appropriate. She rolled out of bed, pulled on her clothes from the previous day, and waited for Varric at his table. 

He returned with a plate of bread, a jar of honey on the side, and a mug of coffee for each of them. They sat in their usual spots next to one another, cards in hand, and spared not a single awkward glance or touch. She dared to think that this was almost perfect. 

Hawke would probably never be good at Diamondback, but Varric still insisted on trying to make her half-decent. Probably to ease his conscience when he took all her money. She lost another hand, though it was fun to see that Varric was more frustrated about it than she was. 

"For someone so good at Wicked Grace, I find it hard to believe that even your dog is better at Diamondback than you." 

"I'm a conundrum, all right." 

Varric sighed and took another piece of bread. Hawke figured it was the best opportunity to ask him. 

“So is this open for, ah, repeat performances?” 

Varric chuckled. “Do you really have to ask that after this morning?” 

“Point taken.” She grinned at him over the top of her cards. “And are we announcing this to the others?”  

Jaw cocked to the side mid-chew, Varric stared at her for a beat before resuming his thoughtful munching. 

"What were you thinking?" he deflected. 

Hawke grumbled and debated refusing to answer until he did, but thought better of it. 

"I don't think it's strictly necessary. I’m not too keen on hearing shit from Aveline," she added with a grin. 

“I’m sure they’ll figure it out eventually.” Varric discarded and took a sip from his mug. 

“And Isabela will undoubtedly be the first, busy body that she is.”   

Varric laughed. "Probably. I'm not going to say we should hide it, but I don’t think there’s any harm in letting them put two and two together." 

"Sounds good to me.” She hoped her sigh of relief wasn’t audible. “Glad we’re agreed on that.” 

By unsurprising happenstance, Isabela strolled through the open door, sat down on Varric's other side, and gave them both a sly grin. Varric casually moved his coffee to his other side, away from Isabela so she couldn’t steal it for herself. 

"Morning, Isabela," Hawke said lightly, reorganizing her hand. 

"Hawke," Isabela said sweetly. "You're here early." 

"Never left. I drank too much again and stayed the night," she added with a self-conscious chuckle. 

"Oh? Well maybe you can help me with something then,” she said innocently, immediately putting Hawke and Varric on edge. “I heard the _strangest_ thing last night from Varric's suite and I wonder if you could shed some light. I mean, since you were here all night.” 

“And what would that be?” Hawke chanced a glance at Varric under the guise of looking for any tells. Varric did not look up. 

“You see, I happened to be on my way upstairs, ready to retire for the evening, when I heard the strangest sound coming from Varric’s room. Moaning, if you can believe it. But not just any moaning, no. It was _familiar_ moaning. Why, I could hardly believe my ears! If I didn’t know any better—and I _do_ know better—I’d say it was _you_ , Hawke! Being ploughed by our dear dwarven friend.” 

Hawke groaned. "Isabela, we've been over this. Varric and I are—" 

“Groping grinders? Greying Wardens? Floating frigates?” 

“No!” They both exclaimed at the same time. 

“No? Then who else was holding Hawke down and fucking her until she begged?” 

Caught completely off guard, Hawke couldn't help the flush that swept over her face or her defensive shout of, “I did not beg!” 

Varric groaned and glared at her. Isabela grinned the widest, shit-eating-est grin either of them had ever seen grace her face. 

“Well, shit,” Varric muttered, throwing down his cards and putting his chin in his hand. “Nice going, Hawke.” 

“Oh, no,” she moaned, covering her face with both hands and leaning on the table. 

Isabela laughed in a rich uproar of satisfaction. "It was a good effort on your part, Hawke, but that voice of yours can't be muffled. Though, I'm not sure why you'd want to. You sound so lovely when you’re—" 

" _Thank you_ , Isabela,” Varric said loudly enough to drown her out. "That's enough." 

"It's hardly a start!" Isabela exclaimed. "Details! I need details! Did he delve into your Deep Roads or barely scratch the surface?” 

“Isabela, please,” Hawke pleaded. 

"Mm, yes," Isabela cooed. "That's more like what I heard last night." 

"Did you sit outside my door the _whole_ night?" Varric cut in. 

"I did not! What do you take me for? Don't answer that," she added before Varric could respond. 

“You win, Isabela. You caught us. Can you leave now?” 

"Not without specifics," Isabela huffed. "I need visuals. I need positions. I need a _play by play_." 

"No you don't. You just want to gloat." 

"Of course I do! You two have been eyeing each other for four damned years. Give me something." 

"Get. Out." 

"If you don't tell me I'll have to make it up,” she sing-songed. “I _am_ woefully behind on my friend-fiction…" 

"Out, Isabela!" Varric bit out. 

She cackled in response and came around between the two of them. She swooped in quickly, kissed them both on the mouth, and practically skipped out of the suite. They exchanged a stunned look and Hawke licked her lips. 

As an afterthought, Varric shouted, “Close the door!” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it!” Isabela shouted back gleefully. 

"We need new friends," Varric said flatly. 

Hawke managed an embarrassed laugh. "I'm fairly certain that everyone will know by noon, now." 

Varric shuffled the cards and dealt new hands. "Ah, well. We tried." 

Silence filled the suite once again as they rearranged their cards. 

Satisfied with her hand, Hawke arched a single eyebrow and accused, “So. You held me down because you talked to Isabela about my…preferences.” 

“Hey! She talked to _me_ about them. I was the unfortunate party who couldn’t drown her out.” 

Hawke was highly unimpressed, a second brow rising to join the first. 

Varric tried and was unable to persevere under that look. “I…suppose I might have filed that bit away. For reference. For your story?” 

“So full of shit, Varric…” 

He shrugged. “Still a storyteller.” 

They looked up at the same time. Two days ago, they would have averted their eyes. Today, they shared a small smile and returned to their game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this was worth the wait. I've never written smut before so if anyone has constructive criticism, it would be very much appreciated!
> 
> I apologize in advance, but you should probably consider this on hiatus after this chapter until at least the winter holidays. This semester is intense and I have a lot going on, and as a result I haven't been able to outline the next chapter at all.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry guys. Life and all that jazz. Updates will be sporadic going forward, but there's a plan and a rough draft for most of everything until the end. 
> 
> Also, I'm working on a complete rewrite of chapters 1 and 2. This was initially supposed to be a series of drabbles and instead it turned into this massive beast. The first two chapters don't reflect that well enough.
> 
> ***TRIGGER WARNING***  
> The last part of this chapter (section 10) has a scene which might be triggering for some dub-con themes.

_I._

Things returned to a sense of normalcy—as much as they could in Kirkwall, at least. Balance, something that had been missing from Hawke’s life for several years, seemed like it was actually within reach once again. She spent most of her nights with Varric, much as she had before, but now a good portion of that time was spent naked. Utter exhaustion of a good kind did wonders for her sleep and she felt more rested after a week than she had in years. The nightmares didn’t end, but the warm body next to her kept the worst of them away. Even better than the sex was the return of their usual uncomplicated relationship. They resumed their nights closing out the bar drinking and exchanging stories; their quieter nights with his nose buried in ledgers and hers in a book while she lounged over him in some ridiculous fashion. Everything picked right back up from where it left off, before they’d started teetering on the edge of more-than-friendly. 

As much as she insisted that she didn’t want to make things weird by staying over, Hawke passed out every night and didn’t wake up until morning. She was loathe to disrupt the sorely needed rest, but she awoke every morning with a mumbled, “Doesn’t mean anything,” just to make sure Varric knew. And he did know. He stopped mentioning it after the first morning, responding to her daily assertion with an amused shrug. Because it didn’t mean anything. When the tables were flipped and he spent the night at her estate, he didn’t bother with the same declarations. The first time he stayed Hawke had raised a brow and he responded with a disbelieving remark about her expecting him to walk all the way back to Lowtown in the middle of the night. They didn’t bring it up again after that. 

The crew was left to figure things out on their own. To Hawke and Varric’s surprise, Isabela remained silent on the matter. She threw them knowing glances by the dozen when the others weren’t looking, but she didn’t say a word. Hawke had a sneaking suspicion that she’d told Fenris, who also spared them the occasional sly glance, but perhaps she simply hadn’t given his observational skills enough credit. 

And so things carried on much as they had before.

 

 

_II._

To say that Aveline was annoyed would have been an understatement. She had secured a promise from Hawke several days ago to help with a group of bandits holed up in the sewers and she had been _sure_ to remind Hawke just the other day of that promise. The guard was stretched thin as it was; she wouldn’t let Hawke leave her to deal with this alone. 

Knocking on her estate door brought Bodahn with the assertion that Hawke had gone to the Hanged Man the night before and hadn’t returned. Aveline teetered on the edge of anger. Years of meddling in the city’s affairs should have instilled that flake of a woman with a better sense of duty and obligation, but _still_ she shirked responsibility at every opportunity. Now Aveline was wasting time that could be better spent putting bandits behind bars. 

She stormed down the stairs to Lowtown, threw open the Hanged Man’s door, and marched up to Varric’s suite where Hawke was undoubtedly nursing a hangover. The door was locked and Aveline had to try very hard not to kick it off its hinges. She was _furious_ , but managed to knock only a little harder than was generally accepted. 

“Hawke! I know you’re in there!” 

No response, but she heard hushed voices. 

“I can hear you, Hawke! You promised to help me clear those bandits and I don’t care how hungover you are, you’re coming with me!” 

“Need a hand?” Isabela’s voice, quiet and innocent, drifted over her shoulder.

Aveline turned to see the woman standing just behind her, a pick held daintily between two of her fingers. She considered, then wordlessly took a step back. Isabela bent and picked the lock within a few seconds, then stepped aside and gestured for Aveline to enter first. 

“Hawke!” she boomed. Seeing that Hawke wasn’t at the table, Aveline headed toward the alcove with the bed. “ _Hawke_ , I’m not—” 

She stopped short when she saw that Hawke was indeed on the bed—on _Varric_ —and completely naked. Aveline’s jaw fell open as she watched the two come to a sudden halt at the sound of her voice. 

“Aveline!” Hawke’s voice was breathy. “What are you doing?” 

“What are _you_ doing?” Aveline demanded. 

“I think that’s fairly obvious.” Hawke raised a brow and reached for the sheets, but they’d been kicked to the foot of the bed. 

“Aveline,” Varric cut in, anticipating Aveline’s dangerous glare turned his way. “Perhaps we could discuss this at a later date? We’re a bit busy at the moment.” 

Aveline’s mouth comically flapped open and closed several times. Isabela cackled behind her. 

“Isabela,” Varric growled. 

“This is a little weird, Aveline,” Hawke said. “Could you…?” 

“Weird? This is—!” Aveline sputtered. 

“Definitely weird,” Isabela said. 

“ _Thank you_ , Isabela,” Varric remarked. 

Aveline took a deep breath and Varric swore he saw smoke when she exhaled. Wisely, Isabela stepped out of the room. 

“We are going to talk about this, Hawke.” 

And she stormed out, slamming the door behind her. 

Hawke and Varric looked at each other. 

"I completely forgot about the bandits," she said sheepishly. 

Varric laughed. "I didn't, but I made sure you did. Now go back to forgetting about it."  

He lifted her hips and thrust up hard. Hawke's laugh was quickly replaced by a moan.

 

 

_III._

Thankfully, that was the worst of the discoveries. The rest figured it out by Wicked Grace night. 

As per usual, everyone but Sebastian came. Isabela sat between the elves, watching with amusement as Merrill studiously rearranged her cards, trying to remember the values of each. Anders had turned down the last three game nights, but Isabela pestered him until the least painful option was to agree. He arrived looking like he hadn’t shaved in a week, but he put in the effort to look less sullen. To Hawke’s relief, Aveline showed no sign of awkwardness after walking in on her and Varric bare-assed in bed. 

Hawke and Varric, so far as they thought, weren’t being any more handsy than they normally were. Sometime into their second hand Varric tapped her elbow to get her attention. As always, her attention was immediate and she leaned down so he could whisper in her ear. Anders glanced up at the movement and away again. He paused, did a double-take. Stared. And finally groaned. 

“Really?” he said. 

They looked up as one. When he continued to stare them down, they exchanged a look and shrugged. 

Anders rolled his eyes and muttered, “Well, it took you two long enough.” 

“Another one down,” Varric remarked. 

“Another one down for what, Varric?” Merrill piped up from her spot next to Isabela, now sure that she had rearranged her hand enough times to properly pay attention to the conversation. 

“Nothing, Kitten,” Isabela cooed. “Just the inevitability of chemistry.” 

Merrill’s face scrunched in thought for a moment before she caught the look Isabela shot Hawke. 

“Oh, you mean Hawke and Varric! I think it’s rather cute, don’t you?” 

Everyone at the table stopped and stared at her in shock. 

“You knew?” Anders cried and threw down his cards. “Before _I_ did?” 

“You didn’t? It was rather obvious, I thought.” She moved a card from one end of her hand to the other and looked back up at everyone innocently. 

Isabela let out a rich laugh and threw an arm around Merrill’s shoulders. 

“It seems writing all those manifestos is hurting your vision, mage,” Fenris said with a smirk. 

Anders narrowed his eyes at him and starting gathering his scattered cards. 

“At least you didn’t get an eyeful,” Aveline said to Anders. 

Anders responded with a sympathetic, if vaguely disgusted, look. 

Hawke leaned her chin on her hand and tilted her head toward Varric. “Not even a week.” 

“There’s still Choir Boy.” 

She huffed. “Only if he catches us doing it in the confession booth.” 

Hawke and Varric were able to enjoy their new dynamic for exactly eleven days before the city promptly lost its shit. 

No one stepped up to fill the Viscount’s seat since the only way they stepped down seemed to be forcibly and fatally. With no one in charge of the city, Knight-Commander Meredith stepped graciously forward to take over, and with no oversight she came down harder than ever on the mages. Orsino’s every attempt to loosen her grip was met with more force. Hawke was more grateful than ever that, though Bethany was resentful of the life she’d been forced into, at least she was free. 

Most surprising was the increasing number of people arriving at Hawke’s doorstep imploring her to fill the Viscount’s seat _herself_. She’d laughed the first few times, but after the dozenth person showed up with a list of reasons as to why she would make a good politician, the joke stopped being funny. She had Bodahn put up a sign telling solicitors that they could find her at the Bone Pit to further discuss her political career, took the secret tunnel from the cellar more days than not, and ignored the reports of people running from the Bone Pit screaming. It was probably just spiders again. When it finally dawned on her that it would fall on _her_ to clear out the Pit once again, she considered leaving the city altogether. 

To avoid said solicitors, Hawke spent more and more time at the Hanged Man with Varric. Ever a good friend, Varric allowed her to hang around his suite all hours of the day without complaint. It was an easy adjustment considering it wasn’t very different from their old routine. Varric certainly couldn’t complain about having a regular (and free) sex life again. He liked to butter himself up with the thought that his skill in bed brought her back so often, but he wasn’t deluded enough to believe it. He knew he was a distraction, whether it was from her overenthusiastic fans or the overwhelming emptiness of her estate, just as she distracted him from the onslaught of his own responsibilities. They both understood the arrangement and it wasn’t like he didn’t get anything out of it. Varric was along for the ride and he couldn’t think of a wilder one than Hawke.

 

 

_IV._

After the unfortunate state of Anders’s coat following a nighttime attack by slavers, they could no longer put off purchasing new armor. Hawke looked forward to rewarding herself for braving her adoring fans with a trip to her favorite food stall in Hightown. Not having a half-dead healer after every skirmish would be an added benefit. 

The trip to Hightown had already taken too long as it was. Anders had needed an extra hour to take care of some construction workers who had been injured by a falling beam; Varric insisted on taking the long way up to Hightown because the head chair of the Merchant’s Guild was loitering around the main stairway; and to top it all off, Aveline’s expense report was overdue and the Seneschal refused to leave her office until she finished. By the time Hawke had managed to drag them all along, it was closer to dinner than lunch. 

The shouting from the Viscount’s square was the last thing she needed. 

First Enchanter Orsino and Knight-Commander Meredith were embroiled in an argument over things that Hawke was doing her best to avoid, when Orsino saw her in the crowd and pulled her in. Hawke had every intention of ignoring him and continuing on her way, but Aveline, the ever-constant reminder that Hawke would always be involved in Kirkwall’s bullshit whether she liked it or not, shoved her in the direction of the altercation. 

“Champion, surely you will lend your voice against the Knight-Commander,” Orsino said. 

“Seems like quite the argument you two have gotten yourselves into,” Hawke said. “Leave me out of it.” 

“Champion,” Orsino said, quieter. Hurt. Desperate. “Please.” 

She braced herself to walk away and Aveline elbowed her forward again. Hawke sighed. “If the city is unhappy with the current arrangement they can elect a new Viscount.” 

“Are you mad? They fear Meredith!” 

“Champion,” Meredith said, stepping closer. “Was not your mother’s life taken by a mage?” 

Hawke narrowed her eyes and swallowed her first response. “Low blow, Meredith,” Hawke said, her voice cold to cover the hot flash of anger. “I’d like to say I’m surprised. ” 

“Cold corpses speak louder than good intentions,” Meredith said mournfully. 

“Only with necromancy.”  

“It is the way of things, Champion. You making light doesn’t change that. Freedoms cannot be granted just because it seems kind.” 

Hawke took a breath. “Orsino is right, Meredith. You go too far. You’re power-hungry. If it was about keeping the city safe from mages, you’d be spending all your time at the Gallows. Instead, you’ve practically taken up residence on the Viscount’s throne.” 

The nobles murmured to one another. Snippets reached Hawke’s ears; assertions that she was right, that Meredith was out of control, that the Gallows were worse than a prison. Hawke sighed, knowing that this was only going to draw more people to her doorstep imploring her to enter politics. 

Meredith’s pseudo-guilt disappeared. Eyes turned to ice, voice turned to steel. “No one will tell me my duty.” 

“What a commotion,” came the voice of Elthina, followed closely by her form as the crowd parted. 

“Your Grace.” Meredith bowed perfunctorily and gestured at Orsino. “Do not concern yourself with this. I have it under control.” 

“Ah, Orsino,” Elthina soothed. “I see your frustration, but is this the way?” 

“I—“ He stopped and sighed, defeated. “No, Your Grace.” 

Elthina nodded serenely and turned to the two templars that had accompanied Meredith. “Sers, please escort the First Enchanter back to the Gallows. Gently, if you please.” 

“Your Grace!” Meredith stepped forward, agitated. “He must be punished! Made an example o—!” 

“That’s enough, Meredith,” Elthina scolded. “This demeans us all. Now, run along to the Gallows like a good girl.” 

If looks could kill, the Grand Cleric would have been several months decomposed. Hawke took a step forward when it began to look as if the Knight-Commander was _not_ going to leave, but Meredith turned on her heel and stalked away with Orsino in tow. 

“Champion, you have my thanks for stepping in.” 

“Sending them back to the Gallows won’t solve this.” 

“They will see reason, if the Maker wills it.” 

“And if they don’t, what? They burn down the city?” 

“Such drama is not necessary.” 

Hawke scoffed. “I don’t mean to overstep, Grand Cleric, but I’m going to anyway. You’re the only one left in Kirkwall who can do something about this, and instead you’re hiding behind the _Maker’s will_.” 

Elthina turned to her with an air of condescending tranquility. “Child, I have been Grand Cleric here for a long time. This will settle.” 

“The last time things ‘settled,’ the Viscount lost his head. Come to think of it, I think that happened the time _before_ , as well. I’m sure you remember that. You _have_ been here for many years, after all.” 

Elthina gave a patronizing look that made Hawke briefly sympathetic for Meredith, turned on her heel, and headed back toward the Chantry. 

“Get rid of one crazy threat and another rises,” Varric drawled behind her. “I’m starting to think this city is in love with crisis.” 

“Starting?” Aveline said. 

He and Aveline turned and headed toward the market. Anders didn’t move, eyes focused on the Grand Cleric’s retreating back, face tight. Hawke put a hand on his shoulder and tried to nudge him toward the others. He didn’t budge. 

“The nobility won’t do anything so long as it doesn’t affect them,” he said under his breath. “It would take something truly catastrophic to change their thinking.” 

Hawke did a double-take. “Are you serious, Anders? We’ve had enough drama today, don’t you think? Andraste’s ass, don’t give me _another_ thing to worry about.” 

Hawke shoved him hard enough to get him moving, but not knock him over. She generally wasn’t one for bad feelings—if she were, it would be a long, never-ending one—but in the mess of the ones that were normal in Kirkwall, Hawke had a decidedly Bad Feeling. 

They arrived to find the market stalls packing up for the evening, confirming that Hawke was also having a Bad Day. 

“All I wanted today,” Hawke said very deliberately, “was a meat pie and new boots.” 

“You can take the Hawke out of Ferelden, but you can’t take Ferelden out of the Hawke,” Varric said dryly. 

“I’ll tell you something that can be _in_ the Hawke…” 

Anders and Aveline groaned before she’d finished speaking. 

“Hawke, no,” Anders said, dragging a hand down his face. 

“What? I was going to say a meat pi—” 

“You were not!” Aveline pointed in a surprisingly threatening manner. “I’m going back to the barracks.” 

Hawke tilted her head toward Varric with a smirk. He returned it, but his eyes strayed to the few nobles still congregating in the Keep square discussing the spectacle. The Bad Feeling intensified. 

 

_V._

Following the confrontation between Orsino and Meredith, more people came to hound Hawke about becoming Viscount and her attempts to redirect them to the Bone Pit were no longer working. Apparently, two had been stupid enough to actually go into the Bone Pit and hadn’t returned, whereas the rest had gotten as far as the entrance before remembering how terrible the Bone Pit was. Then she received an urgent message from Hubert informing her that the workers hadn’t shown up in days and would she _please_ go and put them back to work? 

So to the Bone Pit they went. Fenris hadn’t answered when she showed up at the mansion and the door was locked, leading Hawke to believe that he and Isabela were otherwise occupied. Anders had been dragged along due to his recent glumness, as well as Aveline because Hawke didn’t think she’d bothered the woman enough lately. And, of course, Varric. He was a given whenever she had somewhere less than desirable to travel to. When he complained, she insisted that his griping kept him young and she couldn’t bear to sleep with old men (she had never once been on the receiving end of such a deadly look from him in all their years together). 

Winter was around the corner and the winding, rocky paths that led to the Bone Pit were much colder than the city proper. With no buildings to block the wind, it whipped them about on the unsteady path. It was gearing up to be another harsh winter—by Kirkwall standards, at least. It had never quite reached the frigidity of that first winter after the expedition, but Kirkwall had settled into a pattern of light snowfall every year. 

The years away from Ferelen hadn’t erased Hawke’s affinity for the cold and she had opted for no more than long-sleeved leathers. Varric, on the other hand, buried his face in the ratty old scarf Hawke had given him years ago. It was full of holes and didn’t keep the wind out entirely, but it was still thick and warm enough to keep him from freezing solid. 

Hawke slowed her steps until she fell in beside her dearly pathetic dwarven friend. 

“You wouldn't last a day in Ferelden,” she said a bit proudly. “Luckily, some _wonderful_ creature gifted you with that scarf.” 

Varric kept his eyes on the path without responding. He _was_ happy to have the scarf. The years in his possession had worn it down even more, but it was one of the few things in his possession that held up to the recent winters. It was a damp day and he grumbled under his breath thinking of the snow that the gray sky promised would come later. 

Hawke elbowed him when he ignored her for too long. 

“I find it hard to imagine the _Champion_ knitting by a fire,” he finally said, willing his teeth to stop chattering. 

“Crocheting.” 

“Bless you.” 

“No, I _crocheted_ the scarf.” 

Varric blinked. 

“Crocheting. It’s the Orlesian way of doing it.” 

“You had the patience to do that?” 

“Still do, actually. Mother taught me when I was little. One of the only things that stuck.” 

“You’re an enigma, Hawke.” He grinned despite his numb lips. 

She returned it with a bow as they rounded the last bend. 

They came to a sudden stop as the breath left their lungs in a sharp _whoosh_. The few remains of the work camp smoldered. Whatever happened had been long enough ago that the smoke was barely noticeable; thin white plumes trailed into the gray sky. With the wind at their backs it was no wonder they hadn’t seen or smelled anything. There were charred wagons and supplies strewn about, most of it unrecognizable. The smell was too awful to just be supplies, though. Hawke suspected the workers’ remains were mingled in with the mess. A pair of blackened arms still clung to a shovel. 

“This doesn’t look like spiders,” Varric said in a hushed voice. He held the scarf over his nose. 

“No,” Hawke replied slowly. She didn’t grin, but her eyes glinted with trouble. “But I think I _do_ know what did this.” 

They stared at each other for a moment. 

“Oh,” Anders whispered, eyes wide. “Oh, _no_.” 

Before anyone could recommend they turn tail and run, an ear-splitting roar echoed across the stony ridges, making it impossible to tell where it came from. They crouched, as if a dragon flying overhead wouldn’t be able to see them from above. The ground trembled as something very, _very_ large landed below. Hawke moved silently toward the rock outcropping that overlooked the deepest part of the pit, daggers drawn. 

It was _huge_. Flemeth’s dragon form had been scary, of course, but the full effect had dissipated just enough to keep them from browning their trousers once she saved their lives. This dragon was definitely not going to turn into an old woman and exchange snarky remarks, and it certainly wasn’t going to save their lives. 

The others crept behind her, staring at the beast below them. Hawke turned and grinned. 

“Hawke, think this through,” Varric implored. 

“Think? That doesn’t sound like me.” 

“Hawke—” 

“This is the solution to your problem, Varric! Things are about to get a lot hotter.” 

He groaned. “I’d rather be cold.” 

“We need to get help,” Aveline said. She put a hand over Hawke’s to lower the blade. 

“I don’t know, Aveline. There’s no guarantee that it’ll stay here. It could head to Kirkwall at any moment.” 

“Hawke.” 

“Is that a risk the Guard Captain can allow?” 

Aveline glared, lips pursed. With a resigned sigh she drew her blade and took up her shield. 

“What?” Anders yelped louder than he intended, then whispered fervently, “We’re not really doing this, are we?” 

Hawke answered by standing and racing down the slope into the pit with Sandor at her heels. 

“I suppose we should follow before she gets herself killed,” Aveline said dryly.

 

 

Varric watched in horror as Hawke latched onto the dragon’s head and rose forty feet in the air. After an hour of fighting, it bled profusely from several fatal wounds. It reared back in an attempt to shake her off. Undeterred, Hawke managed to get both daggers through the top of its skull and twisted. It shrieked and thrashed, shaking its head viciously until its legs buckled and gave out. The ground shook with the force of its body collapsing. Aveline rolled out of the way, narrowly avoiding being crushed. Its neck fell last, whipping through the air with its final breath and tossing Hawke off in the process. She collided with the ground and limply rolled a dozen feet before coming to a stop where she lay motionless. Anders shouted and Varric ran over, trying to push away memories of the Arishok fight. 

Then Hawke sprung to her feet with a screech of victory, making Varric jump back. Sandor pranced at her feet, barking in response to her excitement. 

“A dragon! We killed a _dragon!_ An _actual dragon!_ ” 

“Yes, I’m glad we’re alive too,” Varric deadpanned, taking inventory of them all. 

Anders’s staff had been gnawed on by the dragon’s offspring, damaging its ability to focus the magic within. It sparked from time to time of its own volition. An offshoot zapped him, causing a handful of feathers to puff away and his hair to stand up, and he let it fall to the ground with an offended grimace. Aveline’s armor was blackened from barely-dodged fireballs. Headband long gone, her hair framed her exhausted face in a frizzled mess. Sandor had been clawed by the dragon, but the wound seemed to be mostly superficial. Varric’s own duster was beyond repair. Too many dragonlings, too much fire, too much rolling around in the sandy pit. His scarf had been singed and practically disintegrated as he ripped it off before his hair caught fire. Bianca was fine, though. A cleaning was in order, but by some miracle there were no scratches. 

And Hawke, the giant idiot who had nearly gotten them all roasted, looked the worst. Her hair was singed in several spots and the entire right side of her armor was in shreds after being dragged across the rocky base of the pit. A deep gash near her hairline streamed blood down her face, and yet she looked absolutely jubilant. 

“Did you see when it swooped? And the wings—the _claws!_ ” 

“You are _so_ lucky we survived, Hawke, because—” 

He never finished the threat because Hawke picked him up, spun him around, and planted one on him. His mind went blank. She pulled away with an ear-to-ear grin and put him back down. Unwilling to let her know that he was speechless, Varric hooked a finger in the collar of her shirt and pulled her back down for another kiss. She laughed into it as they momentarily forgot that Aveline and Anders were still there. 

Anders cleared his throat. “Hawke. If you don’t mind, I should do something about the huge gash on your face. Also there’s a dragon horde to loot.” 

Hawke cursed, having forgotten the treasure, and trotted off past Anders toward the pile of gold and baubles. 

Anders sighed and said under his breath, “Should have mentioned the treasure _after_ stopping the bleeding. My fault. Definitely my fault.” 

“Hopefully there are some armor pieces in there,” Aveline said, sheathing her sword and replacing the shield on her back. “She’s practically in her smallclothes.” 

“And a staff,” Anders said, giving his abandoned one an unenthusiastic kick.

 

 

_VI._

The suit of armor was interesting, to say the least. After wearing an old leather set found among the dragon’s horde, the Champion’s Mantle was a complete change; belts and buckles galore, sharp pauldrons, a fetching red color that, while appealed to her, did not agree with her sneaking sensibilities. Seneschal Bran had insisted upon having the set commissioned and insisted even more that she wear it whenever possible. Something about the Champion being visible to the city’s people. Hawke accepted it upon Aveline’s sharp prod in her ribs, but internally wondered how the hell it went on. 

It was removed from the mannequin, carefully wrapped, and placed into Hawke’s reluctantly open hands. There was no further ceremony, thankfully; the one officially declaring her the city’s Champion had been enough. 

“Messere.” Bodahn approached as Hawke walked through the foyer. “If I could have a moment to discuss something with you?” 

“Of course, Bodahn.” 

“I—it’s just—” He stopped and sighed. “I watched what happened in the square with Orsino and Meredith, and I think it might be time I moved on.” 

“You’re leaving?” 

“It has been an honor serving you, messere, but I’m getting older. I have to look after Sandal and Kirkwall seems more unstable by the day.” 

Hawke stared at the bundle in her arms. “Where will you go?” 

“Orlais, I think. There are a few nobles interested in Sandal who aren’t looking to study him. We should be safe.” 

Hawke didn’t say anything at first. A feeling of loss sunk in the pit of her stomach. The thought of an even emptier house hurt. “Who will help with all the bloodstains?” 

Bodahn chuckled. “This home has more than a battlefield.” 

“I’ll just have to manage. I can’t stop you, though I am tempted to join you. Even if it is Orlais.” 

“Feeling a bit restless, eh?” Bodahn’s smile faded. “I hope this business with the templars doesn’t get worse. It seems every time things start to settle, another crisis takes its place.” 

“That’s Kirkwall for you.” 

He tried to smile again, but couldn’t. “I worry about you, messere.” 

He gave her a nod and walked away. 

“Me, too,” Hawke said under her breath. She hugged the armor to her chest a bit tighter.

 

 

_VII._

“Have you heard the rumor making the rounds about you?” Aveline asked. 

“I hope it’s about the dragon I single-handedly took on that’s now mounted above my fireplace.” 

“You idiot.” Aveline reached out to swat at Hawke’s arm, only for the rogue to sidestep at the last moment. “ _No_ , but if I hear that rumor you’re going to get it. I did not lose a perfectly good set of pauldrons for you to take all the credit.” 

Hawke cackled. “I’m joking! Maker, you’re uptight. What rumor would this be?” 

“That the Champion is _involved_ with the woman responsible for the Qunari attack.” 

Hawke blinked. “No, I hadn’t heard that. What a silly rumor.” 

“Of all the people to hear it from first, _Bran_ told me. I know it’s not true,” Aveline said and paused. Her eyes narrowed for an instant, as if she were considering the plausibility. “But it’s troubling, nonetheless.” 

“It’s just a rumor,” Hawke said with a shrug. “Probably one of the tamer ones I’ve heard about myself, too.” 

“The implications are not. Don’t feed it is all I’m saying.” 

“That’s a bit difficult when the entire nobility watched me duel the Arishok solely for her. Huh…Maybe it does make sense.” 

“And since we’re on the topic of your relationships…” 

“Oh, here we go.” Hawke rolled her eyes and leaned against the wall, arms crossed. 

“You and Varric. What are you two doing?” 

“I thought you were explicitly aware of what we’re doing.” 

“Don’t deflect. I’m trying to look out for you.” 

“Worried about my feelings?” 

“Yes, actually. You’re so rarely serious that I have no real reference. I’ve never seen you express romantic interest in anyone, and Varric is still hung up on whoever Bianca was. If this is just a fling, well, that’s up to the two of you. Maybe I can’t understand that personally, but I want to make sure you two are”—she gestured absently, struggling for the right word—“not lying to yourselves, I suppose.” 

Hawke wanted to make a joke and point out that she and Varric were compulsive liars, but Aveline seemed genuinely concerned for her and Hawke didn’t want to make her feel awkward. “We’re not serious.” 

“You never are, are you?” Aveline smiled wryly. 

“I am consistently inconsistent and I take pride in that.” 

“Of course you do.” Her smile hadn’t faded, though, which meant she hadn’t been put off by Hawke’s joking. 

Aveline was clearly going to leave the conversation there for Hawke’s sake. Tempted as she was to be on her way, Aveline _had_ been forced to see her naked because she was a forgetful moron, so she owed her friend for that, at least. 

“I mean, I’m fairly surprised you didn’t notice all the flirting before.” 

Aveline looked up in mild surprise. “You flirt with everyone. I’m married and you _still_ flirt with me. I’m not sure anyone thought you two were serious.” 

“We _aren’t_ serious. Just seriously attracted to each other. Especially naked.” 

No matter how much of the Kirkwall sun she got, Aveline’s fair complexion couldn’t hide her pink cheeks. “Hawke, honestly.” 

“Hey, you can attest to that.” 

With Aveline’s face fully flushed, Hawke felt sufficiently accomplished after having such an awkward discussion sprung upon her. “We’re best friends who sleep together on occasion. I’m sure we’re not the first.” 

“It seems to be more than occasionally.” 

“He looks _very_ good naked.” 

“And we’re done here,” Aveline said loudly, speaking over Hawke and blushing to her hairline. “Out, Hawke.” 

With a wave over her shoulder and an entertained cackle, Hawke left the Keep.

 

 

_VIII_.

“So, that armor seems to be working out well,” Varric said. 

It was a highly unsophisticated attempt to appear at ease with their descent underground. Still, Hawke couldn’t keep herself from indulging him. While part of her wished they could be honest about how nerve-wracking it was to return to the same tunnels they had been trapped in for nearly two months, the other part of her was perfectly amenable to denial. It wasn’t the healthiest pattern for either of them, but it worked. (It didn’t.) They’d been insistent on Anders staying behind, even though he was willing to reenter the Deep Roads to find his old comrade. He had been fragile lately in a way that neither could describe. A trip to the Deep Roads seemed like the last thing he needed. 

“It is!” She slowed her steps and help her arms out. Nearly two weeks had passed since the armor was given to her and Hawke had only just figured out how to put it on correctly. “If only it didn’t have so many buckles. Takes forever to put on.” 

“Mm,” he hummed and tilted his head. “You know, I think it’s actually more up the elf’s alley. Spiky. Difficult. Unnecessary.” 

“Are you still talking about my armor or have we moved on to criticizing _me_?” Fenris droned from behind them, unprovoked by the whole exchange. 

“Neither. Just wanted to see if you were paying attention.” 

Fenris let out a noncommittal grunt and moved past them. He reached a ledge and stopped. 

“I think we’ve found Nathaniel.” 

“How do you know?” Merrill skipped ahead until she was beside him. 

“I assume there aren’t many humans wandering around down here.” 

Sure enough, there was a tall man in Warden gear holding off a small band of darkspawn with his bow and a knife. 

“Looks like he needs help.” Hawke may as well have been talking about the weather. “Shall we?” 

She and Fenris ran forward to join the fray, ducking when directed to by Varric and Merrill. The Warden faltered in surprise upon suddenly being joined in his fight, but regained his footing quickly. Outgunned and outmanned, the darkspawn fell within moments. Hawke spared a moment to draw a streak of blood over her nose as the others took inventory. Old habits died hard and being impaled wasn’t enough to kill this one. 

“Nathaniel Howe, I presume?” Hawke asked, wiping her daggers on the darkspawn corpses. 

“Yes,” he replied, studying her carefully. “You’re the Champion, aren’t you?” 

“I see my reputation has spread rather far.” 

He grinned. “The stories are…misleading, to say the least. But that blood across your nose certainly is distinctive.” 

Hawke looked at Varric and mouthed ‘misleading?,’ to which he simply shrugged. 

“Why are the Wardens retracing our route?” 

“You traveled further into the Deep Roads than we’d thought possible. I was ordered by the First Warden himself to lead a unit down here.” 

“How did you find it?” Varric asked. “We didn’t draw a map.” 

“We got the information from a dwarf, Bartrand. Lyrium-addled, I think.” 

Varric swayed. Hawke put a hand on his shoulder to steady them both. 

“You went to my turncoat of a brother before us? I’m not sure I can properly describe how idiotic that is.” 

“We feared you’d return if you heard.” 

“Trust me, we wouldn’t have if we hadn’t been tasked with saving your life.” 

“It was the information we had at the time. Clearly not the best.” 

“And here you are, up to your neck in darkspawn,” Hawke quipped. “Well, let’s get you back before your sister has a conniption,” she said and made to turn back the way they came. 

“I can’t,” Nathaniel said. “I was separated from the rest of my group. I have to look for survivors.” 

By the hardness of his face and the set of his shoulders he wasn’t going to be convinced otherwise. Hawke sighed. 

“Lead on, then.” 

Hours passed as they continued down. Hawke thought wryly about the quick progress they were making compared to their bumbling escape during the expedition. They’d been so tired that they’d overlooked the tunnels they’d needed. Endless backtracking had set them back days, whereas now she could make out the route they needed with little difficulty. She suppressed a shiver remembering the hunger and exhaustion. Another few wrong turns and they wouldn’t have survived long enough to stumble back to the surface. Hawke reached out for Varric’s shoulder, masking her need for reassurance by pretending to keep him from tripping over a thin fissure in the ground. It was fairly obvious that he’d already seen it, but he nodded his thanks to her anyway, seeing that she needed it. 

Several bodies in blue and silver were found, each surrounded by dozens of darkspawn corpses and just as dead. Nathaniel paused over each one before continuing, unwilling to turn back until he found proof of the fate of every Warden. So far, the only living one they’d come across was the dwarf with the explosives. 

“There are only two more missing,” he said softly. “If they live, they’ll be up ahead.” 

Hawke remembered the room. Surrounded by lava, it was where they’d been when Bethany fell, overcome by the taint. Varric squeezed her wrist briefly and started down the stairs. 

Over a dozen darkspawn were swarming someone in the Warden colors. Nathaniel ran ahead without a word, bow drawn and an arrow nocked already. Hawke leapt into action, targeting the monsters with crossbows. It wasn’t until they were all slain that she could take a breath and ensure the remaining Warden had survived. She’d already noticed one corpse among the bodies strewn across the floor. 

She was thin, black hair braided down her back to keep it out of the way and a staff in one hand. Even from behind, the shape was familiar to Hawke. 

“Bethany?” Hawke breathed. Her knees almost buckled from the shock. 

The woman turned. “Niamh? Is that really you?” 

She sounded more confused than pleased, but it was a far better greeting than Hawke had received during the Qunari uprising. Hawke rushed over, hands grabbing her sister’s shoulders firmly, half expecting the woman to disappear. Bethany looked much older than she should have at twenty-six. No gray hair or scars, though, proving once again that Niamh simply had the worst luck. 

“Is that really _you_?” Hawke said and laughed. “What? No hug?” 

The coldness still looked foreign on features that had once been too soft to show anything other than kindness, but Hawke forced her voice to be light. Bethany gave a very Carver-like look, which made Hawke’s chest clench for a multitude of reasons, but walked into her older sister’s embrace voluntarily. There was strength in her grip and she was better-fed than she’d ever been in Lowtown. Hawke could take the wariness so long as her sister was taken care of. 

“You know each other?” Nathaniel walked over. 

“She’s my sister,” Bethany said. 

“The Champion?” He looked stunned. “Oh, _Hawke_ , of course. I didn’t make the connection. Why didn’t you mention it?” 

“It’s a whole family of titles,” Bethany said dryly, turning her attention to Nathaniel’s wounds. 

Hawke was so distracted trying to remember the other titles in their family that she nearly missed how close Bethany had gotten to Nathaniel. She diligently looked for wounds and, in doing so, had crossed well over the typical boundary of personal space. Nathaniel looked perfectly comfortable with the intrusion. Bethany’s hands lingered as they exchanged a soft smile. 

“I’m glad you’re all right, Nate,” Bethany said softly. 

He covered her hand with his and responded, but blood pounded in Hawke’s ears and she couldn’t make it out. 

“ ‘Nate?' ” she said so sweetly it made her teeth hurt. 

Bethany rolled her eyes, recognizing the tone. _Nate_ had the decency to at least blush, but he didn’t remove his hand. 

“Yes,” Bethany snapped. “Maker, don’t pull this on me.” 

“Pull what? I just want to make sure _Nate_ here understands that—” 

“Niamh, stop. I know. He knows. We could die any day, but I’m choosing to have some meaning in my relationships for as long as I have.” Bethany shot her a cold, knowing look and returned her attention to Nathaniel. 

Hawke was taken aback by the obvious insinuation. Her dalliances in Lothering had been kept as quiet as possible so no one would worry. Apparently Bethany had not only known, but misinterpreted Hawke’s actions. She looked at Varric helplessly. He squeezed her hip and ran a thumb over it as if to say, _Give her a break_. 

Before Hawke could respond, Bethany and Nathaniel’s heads snapped toward one of the doors. 

“Darkspawn,” they said as one. 

With their numbers it wasn’t a very difficult fight. Ogres were never easy, but they were felled efficiently and the group made it back to the surface just after nightfall. Bethany refused her sister’s offer to stay at the estate, instead opting to stay with Nathaniel and his sister until they received their orders. Neither seemed to be in a rush to return to Amaranthine after losing so many. 

An hour later, Hawke stood alone in her study holding a glass of wine in front of the fire. The estate’s creaking seemed louder than usual, the emptiness more pronounced. She sipped compulsively, needing something to do with her hands. Thankfully, she was sober enough to realize that she _wasn’t_ sober enough to go looking for a fight, but the pent up anxiety she felt wasn’t going away. Throwing the glass at the fireplace was an option, but she didn’t want to clean it up later. 

Footsteps approached. Would Bodahn be that forward in his concern for her? Probably not. The only one who ever was— 

“Hawke,” Varric said. 

“Varric,” she answered automatically. 

He stopped beside her, gently unwound her fingers from the wine glass, and set it down on a table. A hand pressed against her lower back, nudging her out of the study, up the stairs, and into bed. 

“Why are you here?” 

Varric paused his mothering and looked at her. 

She genuinely wanted to know. There was no awkwardness between them, but things had already started to feel different in the two months since they’d started sleeping together. Most of it could be explained away—they’d always spent too much time together—but now there was a trembling unsteadiness beneath their friendship. She couldn’t put her finger on it, like a word on the tip of her tongue. Varric was better at words than she would ever be, so asking him seemed reasonable. If only she weren’t so afraid of what the answer might be. 

He took a deep breath, looked like he was about to say something, then let it out in a sigh. She watched him swallow whatever he was initially going to say and settle for, “Couldn’t sleep. Thought a roll in the hay would help.” 

Hawke snorted. Simultaneous relief and impatience swelled in her chest. 

“Then I thought the timing probably wasn’t the best, so I figured your prattling would put me right out.” 

She laughed and tugged him toward her. He chuckled, resisting her pull until he’d shed his clothing. With his arm outstretched in invitation, Hawke curled into his side. 

As she started to drift off, eyelids heavy and breath deepening, she heard him whisper, “It doesn’t mean anything.” 

She mumbled her agreement and they both fell asleep. 

It was the first night they spent together without having sex, at least since they’d started this arrangement. Hawke had fallen asleep countless times in Varric’s bed before, whether from being too drunk or simply too tired to make the trek back to Hightown, so this wasn’t really _that_ weird. It was, however, a first for her to sleep cuddled up to someone without a good romp first. But Varric was warm, he didn’t snore, and he didn’t expect anything else from her. While it helped her sleep, it didn’t help the odd twist in her gut. Happily, she had grown very skilled at ignoring the nagging of her better judgement and she simply stopped mulling it over.

 

 

_IX._

Hawke and Varric made their way around the viscous puddles of unknown origin and the people mumbling to themselves. Darktown was always full of such lovely surprises and, of course, Anders had to reside in one of the dankest corners. Anders wasn’t in the best spirits and their efforts hadn’t helped, so they called it a loss and walked up to Tomwise’s stall. 

“Tomwise!” Hawke greeted. “Got those poisons ready for me?” 

He looked up as if in a daze, eyes slowly searching for the source until he saw Hawke. 

“Ah, Hawke,” he said, rummaging through the satchels before him. “I was about to give these to a messenger. Don’t know why you came down here.” 

“Stretching my legs,” Hawke said cheerfully, hands on her hips. “I haven’t seen my favorite poison-monger in some time.” 

Tomwise stared blankly, as he always did, with a parcel outstretched. Unfazed, Hawke reached out to take it. He didn’t let go. Suddenly his eyes were filed with an intensity she had never seen in them before. 

“Word is the templars are gunning for you, Hawke. Watch your back.” 

He let go. 

Caught off-guard, Hawke couldn’t muster more than an awkward shake of her head. 

“What? No, it’s fine,” she stammered. “Nothing to worry about. I’m not worried.” 

“That’s not what my contacts say. Stay safe out there, Hawke.” 

He returned to his work, his concern gone as quickly as it came. Brushing off her unease, she and Varric headed up the stairs to the city proper so they could pick up her order from Worthy. Thankfully, Worthy did not offer any cryptic warnings. Varric took Tomwise’s package from her as she took the small, but heavy bag of runes. 

“So, what happened to your scarf, Varric?” Hawke asked as they wove through the crowd, en route to her estate. It was damp out and even Hawke had opted for a sweater. Varric instinctively burrowed into his coat. They’d almost forgotten about the weather after spending so much of the day below the city. 

“A _dragon_ happened to it,” Varric said. 

“Ah, right. I’d apologize, but we all lived and now you have a tale that you don’t have to make up for the rumor mill.” 

Varric threw her a dirty look over his shoulder. 

“Don’t act like you haven’t already started writing the scene for the _Tale of the Champion_. I saw your rough draft the other night.” 

“It’s a story I’d rather have made up,” Varric grumbled. “But I suppose it wouldn’t have been nearly as outlandish. Now I know which authors fabricated their encounters with dragons. It’s all of them, by the way.” 

“See? You can’t put a price on authenticity like that.” 

“Out of curiosity, what price do you put on my life?” 

“Hmm…a fair one. Limited by your height, of course.” 

Varric stopped short and kneeled, hunching his back and sending Hawke toppling over him and onto her ass. 

“Short jokes, Hawke?” he remarked, watching her outrage with glee. “I expect better from you by now.” 

She didn’t bother waiting for a helping hand, standing and brushing herself off. 

“You are so lucky you took the poisons,” she said shaking the bag of intact runes at him. “And here I was about to offer making you a new scarf.” 

Varric paused. “You were?” 

“Oh, yes.” Hawke stretched casually. “I was planning on the nice wool, too. Very soft. Very _warm_.” 

He hooked a finger through one of her belt loops as she began to meander away. “Let’s not be hasty, Hawke.” 

“What’s this?” She cupped a hand behind her ear. “That didn’t sound like an apology.” 

“We’ll call it even. Authenticity or not, you _did_ thrust us into a dragon fight without any preparation.” 

Hawke pursed her lips. They had stopped by one of the pillars in the crowded Keep square, not quite in the way, but not quite out of it either, and the occasional passerby grumbled at them. A man walking by opened his mouth and she slid a foot out, tripping him. He stumbled and got halfway through cursing her doglord mother before he recognized the scar over her nose and promptly hurried along. 

“I guess that’s fair,” she relented. She spun on her heel and walked back down the stairs to the market. “Off we go.” 

“Where are we going?” 

“To buy yarn.” 

An hour later they settled into Hawke’s study. She’d pulled out a set of hooks and was determining which would work best for the yarn she’d picked, which was a truly obnoxious red. Now that he thought about it, didn’t Rivaini and the elf wear red? Did Hawke give out souvenirs to her dalliances? Varric shook the thought away. 

He poured them both wine, grabbed himself a book from her shelf, and laid back with his head on her lap. She interrupted his reading to hold the bundle of yarn while she turned it into a ball. He huffed, but put his glass down on the nearby table. 

“Don’t huff at me,” Hawke said, nudging him. “I’m making this for _you_.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” 

With the ball finished, Hawke began to work on a fairly simple pattern and Varric returned to his book. She kept it over the armrest so it wouldn’t cover Varric’s face and worked for about two hours before Varric grew bored with the story. It was one he hadn’t recognized, but the plot was thin and contrived, the characters one-dimensional. He shut the book with a snap and put it aside, sitting up to watch Hawke work. Even as she spared him a glance and a smile, she continued to dexterously work the hook through the yarn, looping and pulling it into something that vaguely resembled a scarf. It still baffled him that Hawke could work so patiently. 

She switched the hook to her other hand to sip her wine, cracked her knuckles, and switched it back again. As she sat back, Varric brought his arm around her shoulders. She hummed, leaning into his touch for a second, and returned to the scarf. 

“Looks like that requires some real concentration,” he said conversationally. 

“Not really,” she replied absently, holding it up so she could double-check the last row. “It’s mostly counting.” 

Varric was on his third glass of wine and felt a pleasant tingling under his skin. It wasn’t that he wanted to pull Hawke away from her rare display of concentration, but he didn’t _really_ need the scarf right away. He decided it could wait for now. One arm still around her shoulders, he used his free hand to gently brush her hair behind her ear. The corner of her mouth quirked up, but she didn’t stop. Ever so lightly, he trailed his fingers down her jaw, her neck, across the bit of her collarbone peeking out. Hawke paused. 

“Yes, Varric?” 

“Hm? I didn’t say anything.” 

Hawke narrowed her eyes, but continued. 

Deliberately, Varric drew his fingers back over her collarbone and down her arm. He opened his hand, stroking her hip with his palm down past the hem of her finery and hooking a thumb under it. 

Her hands stopped. Finally. She turned to him, face just a hand’s width from his. He watched her eyes flicker down to his lips and up again. 

“Varric,” she said slowly. 

He loved the way she said his name. 

“Yes, Hawke?” He pushed the fabric up her thigh. 

“What are you doing?” 

She didn’t hide the sly grin in time for him to miss it. Heat simmered in the pit of his stomach.

“Nothing.” 

“Are you trying to distract me?” 

“Why ever would I do that to the woman making a scarf just for me?” 

“My question exactly.” 

“Well then, don’t let me distract you.” 

He continued to push the skirt of her finery over her hips, slipped his fingers under her smalls, and she put her work down. 

“Too late.” 

She took his hand and dragged him up to her room.

 

 

Hawke woke up refreshed in the morning. For once in the wake of the city’s recent tensions, there was no insistent weight pressing upon her chest, keeping her in bed longer than she should be. Her mood was light, her body was pleasantly sore, and her bed was empty. Varric was gone and the bed was cold where he had been. Weight or no weight, Hawke liked to sleep in and Varric had things to do. 

Judging by the sun, it was still an hour or two until noon. The stalls would have breakfast pasties left so she threw on a loose sweater and trousers, called Sandor, and headed out the door. 

The market was busy since the early hours had long passed, and it took time to weave through the crowd. She made it to her favorite stall to browse the leftovers, and felt a hand on the small of her back. Her mouth tugged up at the corner. 

“Hightown of your own volition, Varric?” 

“Guild business forced me.” He glanced over the stall’s selection with her. 

Hawke snorted and nudged him with her hip. “Did one of your imaginary cousins forget to do their job or did you forget to make one up to do it for you?” 

He pinched her. “How can you be so irritating after just waking up?” 

“It’s a talent.” 

Varric rolled his eyes. “The Salmers threatened to revoke my agents’ access to the shortcut through the Frostbacks, which will make my shipment to Lord Helmi late, thus ruining our alliance. So here I am, trying to do damage control through other Guild members who owe me favors.” 

“You’re never even there. How many could owe you favors?” 

“All but two.” 

Hawke’s brows shot up. 

“How are you still surprised?” 

“Not surprised. Just impressed.” 

“It’d be more impressive if they would get back to me right away,” he grumbled. “Everything has to involve a meeting with the family, and the solicitors, and the _accountants_. It’s a damned pain in my ass.” 

Hawke stifled her chuckle to avoid annoying him further. His griping continued, but she tuned him out. She pointed at three hearty pasties, paid, and handed one off to Varric. He stopped mid-sentence to stare at it. 

“What is this?” 

“Pasty.” She tossed the third to Sandor. 

“I can see that.” 

“So why did you ask?” Hawke took a small bite, careful not to scald her tongue. 

“I mean why?” 

“Because they’re good? I don’t know. You’re stressed and you never eat breakfast. This is comfort food.” She made a _what else?_ gesture at him and took another bite. His response flustered her a little, bringing attention to a gesture she’d made without much thought. 

Varric continued to stare at her, then let out a laugh and took a bite. “That’s how the Fereldans label it? ‘Comfort food?’ ” 

“We’re a simple folk. Let us have our meat-filled goodies in peace.” 

“You’re something, Hawke.” 

“Aren’t we all?” 

“Yeah, but you’re…” He trailed off, looking at her oddly. 

“Ravishing?” she suggested. 

He cackled, to her relief. The look he had given her was heavy in a way she couldn’t describe, which meant she didn’t want to think about it. 

They sat on the upper part of the markets, overlooking the rest of the stalls and the people below, eating their pasties in comfortable silence. Varric nudged her with his elbow and gestured below. A pair of dwarves in Merchant Guild attire had descended the stairs and were approaching the general goods stall. 

“That’s Edmund Salmer,” Varric grumbled. “The prick giving me a hard time.” 

Hawke guffawed and he raised a brow. 

“Prick,” she managed between gasps. “Hard time. Varric, that was _excellent_.” 

He groaned and rolled his eyes, elbowing her as her laughter finally died down. 

“So why is he being so difficult?” 

“From what I’ve been able to work out, he and Bartrand had some sort of off-the-books deal. I haven’t been as accommodating.” 

“Ah,” Hawke said. She popped the last bite in her mouth and watched the dwarf in question. “Do you think a little _persuasion_ from the city’s Champion would help?” 

A mischievous smirk tugged at his lips. “Even if it hurts, it’d be worth watching him brown his trousers. I can always bureaucratically strong-arm the Salmers if it doesn’t work out.” 

Hawke grinned and rolled up her sleeves, putting her scarred, muscled arms on display.

 

 

_X._

A few nights later Hawke found herself with a finished scarf and an itch that needed to be scratched. Varric’s negotiations had been successful, but drawn out despite Hawke’s threats. She hadn’t seen him since and wanted a warm bed for the night. Scarf in tow, she made her way to the Hanged Man, across the emptying tavern, through Varric’s door, and stopped. 

Varric did not look good. It was late, but the hour couldn’t explain the shadows under his eyes or the nearly empty bottle on the table. His paperwork, usually ordered in neat stacks, was scattered across the table. He didn’t look up when she entered, just stared glassy-eyed into the dying embers of the fire. Varric normally owned whatever space he took up; any step a pedestal, any chair a throne. The stone chair he slouched in now looked like it was consuming him. 

“Varric?” 

He swayed. His gaze drifted, seeking out the source of his name. He seemed to recognize her, which was good, but he didn’t respond, which wasn’t. 

“Everything all right?” She kept her voice light and sat next to him. The papers strewn about the table didn’t give her any hints at first glance. 

“You ever look back at your mistakes and wonder how one person could fuck up so much?” 

Definitely not good. This was self-deprecation on _her_ level. 

“Have you forgotten who you’re talking to?” she remarked with a chuckle. It was forced, but it didn’t matter. He took no notice and her grin disappeared when it seemed he _had_ done just that. 

“Varric.” She waited until he looked up. “What’s going on?” 

He tried to focus, to see her face rather than the wall behind it. At last his eyes settled, but she had a feeling it was on someone other than herself. Perched between sense and her generally poor decision making, Hawke picked up the bottle and tentatively downed the last of it. 

The scarf was left on the corner of the table, forgotten. 

How they made it to the bed, she couldn’t remember. Varric had grabbed her, buried his face in her chest, and at some point pushed them onto his bed. Hawke shoved her confusion and concern down and let it happen. 

So here she was, on all fours and bare below the waist while Varric pounded into her from behind. The position wasn’t the problem; she wasn’t even sure what the problem was. This was what she’d come here for, wasn’t it? But it wasn’t, not entirely. She didn’t come to Varric’s bed just to get off and have a good time. She came for his company, his stories, his silence. Not to be a stand-in for his demons, which was all the use he seemed to have for her tonight. It was why he’d faced her away, why the patterns his fingers drew were unfamiliar to her and what he knew she liked. His pace was off, full of desperation instead of humor and ease. Hawke didn’t know whose memory Varric was absorbed in (she did), but it wasn’t her. 

What surprised Hawke the most was her own lack of reaction. Surely this was grounds to storm out for the night, but there was something about seeing Varric caught up in his past that she couldn’t walk away from. Part guilt after all the times he’d stuck with her during her own struggles, part hope that her presence would be a comfort. After six years Varric had become the final guardian of her sanity and she owed him quite a bit because of that. This was more or less what she’d wanted, anyway. Beggars couldn’t be choosers. 

Nails dug into her hips just hard enough to surpass the threshold of pleasure into pain, and she didn’t stop him. His hips snapped into hers harder, at an angle that throbbed when he thrust in. And she didn’t stop him. The combination of pain and just enough pleasure to keep it from being miserable hit her with a sudden and wholly unsatisfying orgasm, gone before she knew what hit her. She cried out in surprise, rather than anything remotely pleasurable. 

And she didn’t stop him. 

In all honesty, this was the best comfort she could offer; her body was all she knew how to use. She was incapable of being honest enough to say the right things—not that he was in a state to listen. Drink always make it nearly impossible for him to come and he showed no sign of nearing his end. Her cunt ached. Dissatisfaction and a hint of anger surfaced, but she pushed it back down. It certainly wasn’t the first time she’d had a partner who didn’t tend to her. 

( _But Varric was supposed to be different_ , she thought before she could help it.) 

Minutes passed like hours as Varric demanded something she couldn’t give. He leaned his weight into her and hit deep enough that she couldn’t bite back a pained gasp, but it sounded like he was nearly sobbing and her chest clenched for him despite her own pain. Whatever haunted him, Hawke wasn’t sure she wanted to know. 

A hand released its painful grip on her hip to wrap around and rub her clit the way _she_ liked, but it was too late; she had long passed the point of enjoyment and the finger on her clit just hurt. She buried another flash of anger and pretended to come, which was enough to finally tip Varric over the edge. Rubbed raw and throbbing, Hawke lowered herself onto her stomach. A tentative shift of her hips confirmed that she’d be sore for a few days. 

Varric sat on the edge of the bed, head in his hands. 

“You all right?” she asked. She cared, but she couldn’t find the energy to make him believe it. Vaguely, she wondered if he’d ask her the same. 

He turned slowly—shamefully, she wanted to think—and looked at her. At lease he seemed to recognize her now. 

“Would you believe me if I said I was?” 

“No, but I’d politely pretend to.” 

He chuckled. It was a harsh sound. 

“I should apologi—” 

“You should _not_ ,” she bit out. 

The vehemence in her voice surprised her. It didn't surprise him. He nodded, lips a thin line. 

Hawke got up and found her trousers, slipping back into them. Varric stared at the floor the whole time. When she put a hand on his shoulder he startled. 

“I’m going home. Good night, Varric.” 

And she left.

 

 

Hawke stayed home the next few days. She didn’t have any plans, though there were plenty of things she should be doing. The city was officially nearing “impossible to ignore” levels of crazy, but she was sore and tired and more than a little annoyed with herself. 

Varric showed up around midday, appearing in the doorway to her study with a bag slung over his shoulder and the scarf she had left on his table around his neck. It wasn’t until she saw him that she knew for a fact she wasn’t angry. They knew what this was and she knew he had someone else. He always had. 

“I sent everyone away for the day,” he said. 

Hawke opened her mouth to speak, brows drawn together, but he held up a hand before she could get a word out. 

“But first I had Orana draw a bath. Come with me.” 

“I already bathed this morning,” Hawke said, following him anyway. 

He made a dismissive gesture as he led her up the stairs to her room, where a hot bath did in fact wait. Some digging in his bag revealed a vial of oil, which Varric uncorked and poured into the steaming water, filling the room with the smell of some flower she couldn’t name. Hawke would have enjoyed it if not for the fact that she had no idea what was going on. Varric stopped in front of her and began undoing the ties on her finery. 

“Varric, what—?” 

“Let me do this,” he said. 

But he stopped until she nodded for him to continue. Which she did because, despite her confusion, she trusted him. Her dress fell to the floor, followed by her smallclothes, and Varric gestured toward the tub. 

She sighed and acquiesced, mostly because it was cool in the house and now she was naked. The hot water was luxuriant and made even better by the scented oil. Hawke hummed against her will and leaned back while Varric shrugged off his coat, rolled up the sleeves, and removed a washcloth from his bag. After pouring a different oil on it—a cleaner, more subtle smell—he lathered it between his hands and drew it softly over her shoulders in slow circles. 

Hawke was uncomfortable with this. This was nobility shit. This was romance novel shit. 

This was also fucking fantastic. 

He didn’t stay in any one spot too long, moving over her arms, across her collarbone, down her sternum. Time slipped away from her. She felt heavy and detached at the same time; sinking into the tub, but floating above it, too. The pleasant tingling in her muscles filled her senses. Even when he touched only one part of her, every inch of her seemed to relax. 

He cupped her breast, skimming the nipple with the rough palm of his hand, and she felt her breath hitch with a sudden throb of _want_. Then he stopped and moved around the tub, drawing out a leg and resuming the slow massage. As her breathing evened out again, he abandoned the washcloth to run his hands down her thighs, kneading the muscles and stopping just shy of where she wanted him to touch her—surprising, considering how sore she was. With each stroke, Hawke shifted forward in hopes of him getting the hint. 

Varric released her legs, gave her a meaningful look, and returned to the spot behind the tub. Anticipation drew a moan out of her. He wrapped an arm around her chest and let his free hand trail down her stomach. Hawke sat up straighter, leaned her head back on his shoulder, and clutched the sides of the tub. A brush of contact over her curls just barely avoided her clit and she whimpered. Finally— _finally_ —he slid a finger through her folds and she bit down hard on her lip to keep quiet. 

“I sent everyone away for a reason, Niamh,” he husked in her ear. “Let me hear you.” 

It was all so unexpected that she didn’t even bother to sass him. The finger slid in and pumped once, twice, and she did as he said. He curled until he hit the spot that made her see stars, using the arm around her chest to keep her from writhing out of his grasp. His teeth scraped her neck and bit down on her shoulder. The one finger he fucked her with wasn’t enough, but she could feel that more than that would be too much. She shuddered, hips jerking into his hand as she sought a release she’d been denied the night before. 

“So beautiful,” his whispered. “Come apart for me, Niamh. Come on…” 

She wanted to roll her eyes. Varric got off on that kind of talk, but knew it just embarrassed her. Yet here she was, obeying him and rolling her eyes for an entirely different reason. A coil of heat burst, robbing her lungs of air as it swept her vision away. She bucked in his grasp, sending waves of water onto the floor. Heat surged up the back of her neck to her ears and blocked out all sound for several seconds. She came back down and opened her eyes to find Varric staring down at her smugly, a hand sweeping the hair off her forehead. _Bastard_ was the first thought that formed, but she leaned over to kiss him anyway. 

“Can you stand?” 

She barked a laugh. “You’re good, Varric, but not quite _that_ good.” 

“Oh, I’m not done with you yet.” 

Heat began to pool in her belly again. Hawke stood and took the towel he offered her, drying off. She noticed, happily, that her hair was mostly dry. Varric led her over to the bed. He was still fully clothed, which she felt was entirely unfair, but she let him push her onto the covers. 

“Lay back,” he commanded softly. 

She did as he said, too curious to question. He uncorked another vial as he sat on the edge beside her. Her hand on his chest made him pause. 

“I’m feeling rather at a disadvantage,” she said, eyes dragging deliberately down the length of his body. 

He smirked and put the bottle down carefully as he did as she asked. First the tunic, letting her watch the muscles of his chest, then the boots, and finally his trousers. 

“Better?” 

“Much.” 

He picked up the vial again and poured a small amount into the palm of his hand, warming it between his palms. The barest touch to her shoulder caused a brief but intense heat that followed the trail of his fingers. 

“I just took a bath and you’re covering me in oil?” she said distastefully. If she had to take a third bath today, she’d scream. 

“It’ll absorb. Promise.” 

Lips pursed, Hawke narrowed her eyes as if to say _It’d better_ , and reclined back again. 

Varric brought his hands down her ribs, leaving streaks of heat that built and faded quickly. He cupped her breasts, avoiding her nipples, and trailed them up to her collarbone and down again. Down her sternum, down her belly, and stopping just above her curls to change course for her thighs. Light caresses ended right at her labia before trailing off again. The heat abated fairly quickly, only for Varric to once again tease closer to what she wanted. 

She nearly sobbed when he brushed her entrance, tracing the seam and pulling away again. A little more oil between his palms and he thumbed her clit. Suddenly anther climax was too close, too soon. Her cunt throbbed and clenched looking for more—for less. Varric let her buck for a change, settling on his side next to her with an arm under her neck while his fingers continued to tease and stoke the flames. He kissed the corner of her mouth, her jaw, her ear, while his fingers tortured her. It never reached the pace she preferred, or the pressure, or anything, but she _needed_ it and when she reached the edge it was with a cry of desperate relief. Varric stopped touching her clit, but adjusted so she could ride out the tremors without being overstimulated. She stopped moving and he curled into her side, brushing her hair back to kiss her forehead. 

Hawke blinked slowly, dizzy and exhausted. 

“How am I supposed to reciprocate when you’ve tired me out like this?” she murmured into his neck. 

“You’re not,” he said with some humor. 

“That,” she said, indicating his groin, “begs to differ.” 

“Yes, well, _that_ is also involuntary.” 

“Not voluntarily attracted to my thrashing, then?” 

“On the contrary, I quite enjoy your thrashing. Especially when it’s my doing.” 

“Well I’d _enjoy_ you getting off, too.” 

How, though, she wasn’t sure. Her cunt was still too sore to have sex. She moved as if to use her mouth and he stopped her. 

“If you’re going to pass on the free night, let’s try this.” 

Varric shucked his smalls and moved between her legs. Hesitantly, she objected to the position. 

“I know,” he said softly. 

She blinked, thrown off by the tenderness in his voice. 

He pushed the backs of her thighs toward her chest so that he could kneel comfortably, then spread them to drip more oil over her cunt. The heat made her moan. Varric wrapped a hand around his shaft, coating it with oil and gasping sharply. He directed her legs over one shoulder and pushed his cock between her thighs, rubbing against her cunt in a way that didn’t abuse the already tender flesh. With his arms wrapped around her legs, he began to thrust between them. Hawke gave an appreciative quirk of her eyebrows and lay back. His cock slid against her clit and through her folds, avoiding the more sensitive parts of her. 

After tending to and watching her for the better part of the hour, he was already close. The oil did its part again, pushing Hawke closer to climax than was natural from the heat alone. Varric’s hips lost their rhythm after only a few minutes. He pressed his face into her calf, breath coming in ragged gasps as he stuttered and came on her stomach. His pace slowed, but didn’t stop, giving her enough stimulation to come a third time. It was much quieter than the other two, but it guaranteed that she’d be spending the remaining daylight hours napping in pleased exhaustion. He gently extricated himself and grabbed the discarded bath towel to clean Hawke off before plopping down next to her. A lazy and supremely satisfied grin graced her face. 

“What was all that for?” 

He pulled the blankets over them. “I told you I was never selfish in bed and last night proved me a liar.” 

“Yeah, but you _always_ say you’re a liar.” 

He flicked her nose. “Hush. I don’t want to be a liar about that.” He flinched. “ _Didn’t_ want to.” 

“Does that mean you’ll tell me what was going on?” 

Varric stared at her for an uncomfortably long time. “I think I hurt you enough that night.” 

_Don’t you?_

She heard it as loud and clear as if he’d actually spoken the words. It felt like he was waiting to be berated. For her to get angry with him so they could talk things over like adults. As if. 

Of course he pushed it. 

“This was supposed to be fun and easy. I think I ruined that.” 

Hawke hummed thoughtfully, covering her reluctance to have this conversation. It was always easier to just ignore things like this. “Even if you had, I’d say you more than made up for it today.” 

Varric wasn’t satisfied. 

“Is this a mistake? Us?” 

Hawke sighed and didn’t answer. Why did he have to analyze everything? On some level she knew this _was_ a horrible mistake—gambling with their friendship just because they couldn’t keep their respective attraction to one another in their pants. But she was selfish and the fact that Varric was still next to her meant that he was, too. 

“Do you want to stop?” Not her best sidestep, but Varric seemed conflicted enough not to notice. 

“Honestly? No.” 

“Well then, what’s the problem?” 

Varric struggled for a moment before the mask went up, wiping his conflicted expression for a carefully neutral one so he could sort through his thoughts without her interference. She let him. She’d shouldered enough of his toxic emotions for one week. 

And she shut that thought down so hard her jaws snapped together. 

Varric’s head spun. He was no stranger to overthinking things and he couldn’t have stopped the jumble of guilt and uncertainty that consumed his thoughts now if he tried. It figured that he had finally allowed himself some selfish happiness in his friend’s arms, only to throw it away just as quickly. No matter how much he insisted that he had moved on, a voice in the back of his mind whispered that he betrayed another. Never mind that she was happily married and had told him to snuff out his childish candle for her so they could both live their own lives in peace; or that the stress they’d been under during their affair had shaved years off his life; or that she’d left him at the altar of a run-down chapel to make her point when he wouldn’t leave well-enough alone. None of that mattered enough to make him forget the idealized version of Bianca he held onto. 

The last time he’d thought this much about her was when he’d first kissed Hawke, starting them down the path where they found themselves now. When he tried to figure out what had made him think of her this time he blanked. He remembered wondering where Hawke had been for the last few days before the sneaking tendrils of whiskey had commandeered his memory, then nothing. What was it about Hawke that made him think of Bianca, and why was he so masochistic that he denied himself the first genuinely good time he’d had with another woman since? Self-sabotage wasn’t usually his shtick, but here he was digging himself deeper into stagnation. 

He was tempted to blame it all on the bottle of whiskey, but he wasn’t that deluded. That he’d turned to the bottle in the first place was another weight on his conscience. Varric could drink with the best of them, but there was a precarious balance between holding his liquor and drowning in it. He inevitably thought of his mother and the end of her life. Drinking, especially when he was feeling emotional and _especially_ like he had a few nights ago, was a kind of gambling that he should have known better than to engage in. Clearly the similarities between him and his parents were many and more than he wanted to admit. 

Worst of all, he’d hurt Hawke. He could live with the fallout from his own poor decisions, but it wasn’t fair to involve her. He wished she had decked some sense into him that night. He only remembered bits and pieces, but it was enough to know that, relationship or not, he had crossed a line. There was a flash of her face, concerned and hurt, before he’d ignored it and did what he wanted. The sharp stab of regret boring into his heart as he tried and failed to fuck it away. The shock as the liquor began to release him from its hold and he saw the woman before him _wasn’t_ Bianca; her torso too long, her skin too dark. Then another jolt of pain as he realized what he had done, and more, that she had _let_ him do it. Even in an explicitly casual relationship, Hawke deserved better. 

He dragged his hands down his face with a disgusted sigh. 

“Maker’s balls, Varric!” Hawke exclaimed, abruptly ripping him out of his ruminations. “Stop thinking so much! Watching you is making my head hurt. I’m going to grab something to eat. Either sit here and wallow or join me, but you can’t do both.” 

She got up, donned her robe, and walked out, leaving him in stunned silence. 

He joined her.


	17. Chapter 17

1.

Varric tried not to dwell on the unhealthy turn his relationship with Hawke had taken as well as he could, which wasn’t very well at all. The more blasé Hawke was about the whole thing, the less reassured was Varric. She’d shown no indication of hurt, or anger, or anything else he felt she was rightly entitled to, and she’d come to his bed every night since. He’d have to accept that she was all right, or hiding it better than he could tell—and that, regardless, he was a bastard. As much as his better judgement screamed at him to end this before they destroyed their friendship, he couldn’t. He didn’t want to. Selfishness was hard to deny himself now that he’d had a taste, and the loneliness was too much to bear again so soon. 

Still, he wished she would talk to him, or that he had the courage to make her. He’d known what she was like; he could count how many honest conversations they’d had on one hand. In truth, he didn’t know why it bothered him so much. From the moment he’d laid eyes on her intense, unconventional beauty he’d known that this would be a mistake. It was why he’d been so reluctant to start. How did you pull yourself out of a riptide? Or gravity? Even now he couldn’t bear the thought of breaking things off with her. Varric enjoyed the company of few people and fewer women whom he’d been able to tolerate for longer than a one night stand. Hawke was _fun_. Terrifying and crazy, but undeniably fun. She was something else, too, but even with all the words at his disposal he couldn’t name it. 

The more he told himself that none of this meant anything, the harder it was to remember.

 

//

 

Hawke showed no hint of anger because she wasn’t angry. Even if she had been, Varric seemed to be beating himself up well enough without any help from her. There were no hard feelings, but she was concerned in a way that she wasn’t accustomed to. She still didn’t know why she hadn’t stopped Varric that night. Generally, she prided herself on not taking shit like that lying down (pun not intended, but she mentally applauded herself), but his anguish, drunken and misguided as it was, had hurt her more than anything else. Usually Varric was the one putting her back together, not the other way around. Thinking about his haunted eyes made her chest throb in a decidedly unpleasant manner. She found that it wasn’t a desire to avoid the emotional burden that made her uncomfortable; it was her willingness to shoulder as much of it as she could manage. Because it was Varric. Her mother’s death had finally released her from her familial obligation and yet she wanted to extend herself for Varric. 

She didn’t know what to do other than let things get back to normal, which was a joke in itself. They’d never been normal and the pretense was wearing thin.

 

 

2.

Things fell back into place. Their respective, unvoiced concerns remained, of course, but denial had always been their specialty. They understood the futility of ignoring that things had changed, but ignoring these changes came much more naturally to the two of them. 

Which is how Hawke and Varric found themselves a month later, sitting side by side in her kitchen enjoying wine and cheese late in the night. They weren’t drunk per se, but they’d had enough to feel relaxed after an evening of less-than-restful activity. Comfortable silence filled the kitchen while they ate and drank, save the occasional clink of china. Glass emptied, Hawke turned to Varric and gestured for the bottle—and caught a figure out of the corner of her eye. Someone of short, clearly dwarven stature stood in the doorway. Varric saw her gaze drift and followed it. 

“Oh, sorry to disturb you, Bodahn,” Hawke said. “I didn’t think we were being that loud. Just having a midnight snack.” 

Bodahn didn’t respond. He stepped forward into the light cast by the candles on the table and they saw it was _not_ Bodahn. Two other dwarven figures appeared behind the first and lurched forward awkwardly, their eyes glassy and unfocused. The one in front looked the best, but it couldn’t be said any of them looked “good.” He was gaunt. Another’s beard appeared to be falling out and less than half was left. The third was missing an ear. 

“Blood of the Hawke,” Gaunt muttered before drawing his daggers and lunging toward her. 

Hawke was too stunned by the whole circumstance, but Varric propelled himself across the bench to push her out of the way, earning a slash across the chest. He fell to the floor clutching the wound, which was enough for Hawke to leap into action. She grabbed the cheese knife awkwardly in her hand and sought out the more substantial meat knives. Ah, against the wall behind the three intruders. Of course. She engaged Gaunt, jabbing with the pitiful knife in her grasp and attempting to grapple his wrists with her free hand. He lost his balance stepping over a crate on the floor and a swift kick in the chest sent him toppling backwards out of her grasp. 

By now Varric had risen to his feet, gripping the cutting board in his hands as a makeshift shield. It was serving well enough for the moment, allowing him to fend off the advances of One-Ear. Hawke rushed Half-Beard, knocking him down but earning a slice to her hip. Her hiss of pain was drowned out by the dwarf on the ground, who jabbered excitedly at the splash of her blood on the floor. He lost his blades when he fell and Hawke scooped them up. They were covered in rust and the blades were nicked, but Hawke felt less vulnerable with them. As she adjusted her grip to kill Half-Beard, she saw Varric stumble back in his efforts to ward off his own attacker. One-Ear knocked the cutting board away and Varric received another gash, this time just missing his throat and digging into his collarbone. 

Knowing she wouldn’t make it in time, Hawke threw one of the daggers and managed to strike the intruder in the throat. Varric quickly pulled the blade out before he fell to the floor. The blade had been the only thing keeping the wound from gushing and a spray of blood narrowly missed Varric’s prone form. One-Ear fell to his knees where he bled out and toppled over. She stomped on the face of Half-Beard with a loud _crunch_ , followed by the unsettling sensation of her foot through brain matter. 

Gaunt regained his feet, blades in hand, and Hawke met him head on. His movements were erratic—almost drunken—making it hard for her to predict what he would do. Muttered nonsense and inarticulate shouts were thrown at her, but he seemed as distracted by her presence as he was excited by it. 

“The Hawke,” he slurred. “At last! Must bring to the Master.” 

His preoccupation gave her the opportunity she needed to slit his throat. Blood spattered across her face and chest, but all three intruders were dead. Her kitchen floor looked like it belonged in a butcher’s shop. 

She turned to Varric, who slumped against the table and clutched the cutting board weakly. He looked surprisingly calm. Blood streaked across his chest, matting his hair. 

“All right there, Hawke?” 

The humor in his voice annoyed her. 

“Better than you, at any rate.” 

She hurried over to him and examined the wounds. They weren’t particularly deep, but they were bleeding more than she liked, which was typically _not at all_. She paused, looking for a towel to staunch the flow. The search proved fruitless so she tugged her shirt over her head and pressed it firmly to the wound on his chest. They had just thrown on clothing to grab a quick bite so she wasn’t wearing anything beneath the shirt. Varric dropped his eyes to stare, a slow smirk spreading across his face. She’d have glared if not for his sudden paleness. 

“Andraste’s tits, Varric,” she grumbled, trying not to sound too worried. The adrenaline had started to wear off and she felt jittery. 

“She’s got nothing on yours.”

She rolled her eyes. 

“Hold that tight. I need to get Bodahn, and the Guard, and a _shirt_ … Maybe not in that order.” 

Hawke grabbed a shirt and Bodahn fetched the Guard, who helped clean up the bodies. Aveline was among them and handled it quietly. Then Hawke dragged Varric gingerly through the cellar door to Anders’s clinic. 

Anders had no comment for either of them. He healed their wounds with a sigh and wandered into his back room for a fresh cloth to wipe away the residual blood. 

Hawke, worry temporarily forgotten now that Varric was no longer bleeding profusely, elbowed him good-naturedly. His responding grin faded quickly, however. 

“I’m still a little woozy,” he said slowly, “but did those bastards say something about your blood?” 

Hawke sobered. “It seems they weren’t the typical burglars.” 

“Sounds like that won’t be the last of them. Want to stay with me until we figure out who they were?” 

“No, I can’t put Bodahn and Orana at risk.” 

“Aveline will post a watch.” 

“The Guard’s already stretched too thin. I can’t rely on them.” 

A hand slipped under the hem of her shirt, rubbing her lower back. It did little to settle her unease, but she welcomed it nonetheless. 

“Then Bianca and I will be there.”

 

 

3.

“Bethany,” Hawke chirped in surprise, opening her front door in lieu of Bodahn to see her moody sister. She’d almost forgotten that they were in the same city—the same neighborhood, no less. “I bet good money that you’d never come here.” 

“You haven’t changed a bit,” Bethany remarked with a single raised eyebrow. She leaned forward expectantly until Niamh stepped aside to let her in. 

“So.” Niamh trailed behind, letting her estranged sister explore their birthright. “Was _Nate_ busy today or is there a reason for the sudden visit?” 

Bethany stopped at the door to Niamh’s study and stared in thinly veiled awe at the assortment of books. They’d never had more than a handful as children and the few that Malcolm had managed to hold on to were among the ashes of Lothering. 

“He _is_ busy, actually,” Bethany said without missing a beat. She turned back to Niamh. “Fixing the windows to his sister’s first floor, which were destroyed by a group of crazed Carta dwarves looking for me.” 

Niamh inhaled sharply. “Shit.” 

“What’s going on? What did you do to—?” 

“I know most things are my fault,” Hawke interrupted, keeping her temper at bay (if not her sarcasm), “but this is _not_. I don’t know who they are, but a few nights ago three broke in here and attacked Varric and myself.” 

“Did they say something about ‘blood of the Hawke?’ ” 

“Yeah. Where are the ones that attacked you?” 

“Dead.” 

“Good. And Nathaniel’s family?” 

“Safe.” Bethany’s voice took on a softer tone. 

Strangely, the glimpse of tenderness in her sister made Niamh feel better. 

“Varric’s having his people look into it. Once we can trace where these bastards are coming from we’ll take them out.” 

Bethany looked up and tried to steel her face once more, but she hadn’t the years of experience that Niamh did. A familiar mantle settled on her shoulders, her lifelong role as protector of the family falling back into place. It was comforting, in a way, to have someone else to comfort again. 

“I’ll take care of it,” she said. Another tally mark in the column of the thousands of times she’d said the same thing over the course of her life. 

“Let me help.”

 

 

4.

The fortress stood in the distance, its image hazy from the sand and dust perpetually kicked up by the wind. Overturned wagons blocked the path, their goods and owners’ corpses scattered about—unlooted caravans were never a good sign. 

“There it is,” Varric said, coming to a stop. 

“How does something that big exist so close to Kirkwall with no one knowing about it?” Aveline said in wonder. 

Hawke scoffed. “ _Because_ it’s Kirkwall.” 

Aveline grumbled. “Damned Carta…under _my_ city.” 

“I don’t get it,” Varric said. “Usually the Carta’s too preoccupied with smuggling and the usual crimes to bother targeting a single family. It’s all very strange.” 

“Isn’t that how it always goes with us?” Hawke quipped. 

Varric laughed. “According to my contacts in the Carta, this place doesn’t exist. I think it popped up just for you.” 

“Sounds like my luck.” 

“It’s not on any of the city’s maps, either,” Aveline said, crossing her arms. “What’s your plan, Hawke?” 

“Oh, I’m sure this is all a misunderstanding. I figure I’ll just invite them over for tea and clear up the whole mess.” 

“ ‘Oh, your name is _Hawke_? I thought it was _Locke_!’ Simple mistake,” Varric said. 

Bethany rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe you two are joking about this.” 

“The day they _can’t_ joke about something is a day I fear,” Aveline remarked.

“The laughter just hides the pain, Sunshine.” 

Shaking her head, Bethany advanced further down the path and the rest followed. Varric wouldn’t say he’d known Bethany well, but even he noticed how unsure she seemed. The day he’d met them came to mind, where she had made herself as small as possible behind Hawke. Compared to her new demeanor after joining the Wardens, he was struck by how quickly she had grown up. 

As they got closer to the structure, banners appeared with strange symbols. A group of half-decomposed bodies in the sand gave Varric pause. 

“These banners aren’t familiar—they’re definitely not the Carta’s. They don’t put signs outside of their bases. And those are Merchants Guild bodies. The Carta works _with_ the Guild. It doesn’t attack them. Well, unless there’s a house war going on.” 

“As if my life couldn’t get any weirder.” Hawke sighed. 

They continued on, kicking up dust as they walked. It was desolate, which made it completely suitable for the greater Kirkwall region. Petrified trees and brush littered the valley. More wreckage from caravans stuck out of the sand, implying this wasn’t a recent development. The dilapidated fortress rose out of the mountains, its sun-bleached stone resembling the bones of a long-dead beast. The wind through the structure sounded like breathing. Varric suppressed a shudder, even as he made mental notes of the environment for future use. 

Movement in the distance made them pause. Voices echoed across the stones. 

“It’s the children of Malcolm Hawke! They’ve come to us!” 

“Well, shit,” Hawke said. 

They drew their weapons as a dozen Carta dwarves attacked. Their hunger for the “blood of the Hawke” made them unpredictable and dangerous, but distracted. A walking bomb from Bethany and some well-placed pinning shots from Varric gave them the control of the field. Those remaining were easy for Hawke and Aveline to pick off. 

“I hope this doesn’t affect business too badly for you, Varric,” Hawke remarked. 

He watched her wipe off her daggers on one of the corpses, relieved that none of the blood spattering her armor was her own. “I think I’ll make do.” 

She sighed looking up at the structure as they approached. “Why is it always blood? Why can’t it be—I don’t know—hair or spit or something? And who the hell is this Corypheus? With a name like that he’s got to have a suitably maniacal laugh, I just know it.” 

“I still think blood is better than spit.” Varric grimaced as he pulled a bolt out of an eye socket. 

“That’s only because they’re not after _your_ blood.” 

Worry flashed across Varric’s face before he could hide it. He knew Hawke hated to see it—hated to see anyone worry for her—but she missed his expression. Thankfully. 

“Why do you never take me anywhere nice?” 

“You like it warm, right? When we finish this we can find a beach. One without demons or Pestilent Ones or insanity. Promise.” 

“Please,” Varric scoffed. “The day you go to a beach is the day an armada of demon-pirates shows up.” 

Hawke grinned. “Good point.”

 

 

5.

Hawke yanked on Bethany’s collar, pulling her back just before she could step on the pressure plate. Bethany coughed and clutched her throat, glaring back at Hawke. 

“Sorry. Trap.” Hawke shrugged and kneeled to disarm the plate. 

“Somehow you’ve gotten as annoying as Carver,” Bethany quipped. 

“And you’ve adopted his dour attitude.” 

Bethany chuckled, to Hawke’s relief. It was a good sign that she was bringing up her dead twin of her own volition for the first time in years. 

It was something to have them all together again. The Hawke sisters were still awkward around one another, but it was a significant improvement on the hostility Bethany had shown over their previous meetings. Aside from the cult of Carta intent on bleeding the Hawke sisters dry, it felt very much like their second year in Kirkwall, gallivanting around the city and trying to raise enough coin for the expedition. Aveline had even suspended her typical disapproval of Hawke and Varric’s arrangement to settle back into banter from better days. 

“This place is trapped to shit,” Varric griped, helping Hawke with the next row of pressure plates. 

They were fairly simple traps and easy enough to disarm, but there were just so many that it was slowing them down considerably. Luckily, she’d taken point after the first and no one had managed to light themselves on fire. 

“I’m surprised they picked such dangerous traps if they wanted to bring you in alive,” Varric said. “You’d be fried to a crisp with this much accelerant.” 

Hawke gave a hum of acknowledgment and stopped short as they passed through a gate and saw a tower rising out of the mists to their right. 

“That doesn’t look concerning,” she remarked. 

“Do you see it?” Bethany said. “There are streams of magic coming from those…griffon statues.” 

Her brows drew together. 

“Griffons?” Aveline joined them at their vantage point. 

“I don’t understand…” 

“Take a look at this,” Varric called from a side room. “According to a report, this is an old Warden fortress. You know about this, Sunshine?” 

“No, I’ve never heard of it. No one in Ansberg mentioned it, either.” 

They watched in silence as the streams of magic moved inward. Wherever they converged in the center wasn’t visible, but nothing good was ever held in place by magic. The air was thick with mist, drifting steadily through the chasm despite the lack of any discernable breeze. The opaque swirls hid the chasm’s true depth, but even so they could tell that a fall would mean death.

 

 

6.

“The Hawke’s blood! Now the master can be free!” 

“Gerav?” Varric stopped short, eyes wide. 

“Varric?” The dwarf’s haze seemed to break. “No one told me you would be part of this. W-we just need the Hawke.” 

“Why have you been attacking me?” Hawke demanded. 

“For the master! He is trapped and only the blood of—” 

“Yes, yes,” Hawke cut in. “The ‘blood of the Hawke’ will set him free. Why should he be free?” 

“He commands it.” 

“Shame he doesn’t command you guys to jump off a bridge.” 

“I thought better of you, Gerav,” Varric said, shaking his head. “I mean, sure, killing the occasional competitor for profit is fine, but this? How did you get pulled into this?” 

“They gave me the darkspawn blood and now I can hear the music. I can hear his voice.” 

Varric and Hawke exchanged a worried look. 

“Snap out of it! Hallucinations aren’t profitable.” 

Hawke took a breath. “So, Varric. How about a formal introduction to your…friend?” 

Varric sighed. “Hawke, this is Gerav. He’s a greedy genius that I used to run with. Gerav, this is Hawke, whose blood you want to bathe in or whatever.” His mouth smirked, but the rest of his face appeared to grimace. “I gottta tell you, though, if you or your master are after eternal youth, she’s no virgin.” 

Hawke swatted his shoulder. Bethany had the gall to chuckle. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Gerav said, ignoring Varric. “The master needs the blood. He’s calling!” 

“Gerav, buddy, this isn’t like you,” Varric said with a touch of pleading. He drew Bianca. “Look! I’ve still got Bianca. Hasn’t misfired a day in her life. Don’t make her have to see me do this.” 

Gerav paid no mind and drew his blades. Varric’s brows drew together in conflict, his grip on Bianca’s stock tightening. 

“We can spare him,” she offered, hoping it would smooth the lines in his face. 

“Not if he’s after you,” he replied with sad conviction. 

Hawke bit her lip to keep whatever words rested on the tip of her tongue from bursting out. Gratitude, condolences, ill-timed humor—it didn’t matter. She stayed quiet and drew her daggers. 

It wasn’t hard—not physically, at least. But every pull of the trigger seemed to etch another line into Varric’s face. He got to Gerav before Hawke could save him the anguish. The weapon Gerav designed killed him with a bolt to the chest. Varric kneeled beside the body. 

“Stupid bastard,” Varric muttered. “I used to run with the Carta, back in the day. Gerav was crazy even then, but in a good way. He was working on the design for a repeating crossbow. Bianca was the only one that worked. Can’t believe he ended up like this.” 

Hawke squeezed his shoulder. There were a lot of things she wanted to ask. How long was he with the Carta? What did he do? How close was he to Gerav? None of which were even remotely helpful, so she kept her mouth shut.

 

 

7.

Hawke sprinted after the two scouts, leaping entire sets of stairs at a time to avoid tripping over her own feet and tumbling down them. 

“Niamh!” Bethany called from behind her. “Wait!” 

Hawke passed beneath an arch as she launched herself down, catching the collar of the one scout and pulling him onto his back. The steps of the others echoed behind her, followed by a sizzle of magical energy. She snapped her head around to see the arch now filled with swirling, sparkling orange light. 

Bethany sighed. “I was about to say, ‘I think it’s a trap.’ ” 

“Sons of bitches,” Varric grumbled. “We’re sealed in.” 

“I probably should have seen that coming,” Hawke said flatly. 

The dwarf struggled in her grasp. She slit his throat and dropped the body. 

“Only one way forward now,” Aveline said. 

“There are darkspawn down here,” Bethany said. She rubbed absently at the base of her neck. “There must be an entrance to the Deep Roads nearby.” 

“And people wonder why I prefer the surface,” Varric said. 

Hawke stopped in front of the only door. The lock was jammed, so she braced herself and kicked it off its hinges. Her leg tingled all the way up to her knee, but she refused to let it show. 

Aveline sighed. “Hawke, why wouldn’t you let me do that?” 

A group of genlocks in the room beyond feasted upon the body of the other scout, looking up at the sudden noise. 

“Shit.” Hawke drew her daggers and regretted kicking down the door. The numb foot made her stance clumsy. She hoped it wouldn’t get her killed. 

The genlocks were too surprised to attack immediately, allowing them to avoid a drawn out fight with Bethany and Varric’s crowd control. 

The room beyond contained seals with the Warden sigil above them. The only other door was blocked by magic. 

“Not much choice,” Hawke said and activated the seals. 

The others stood with weapons at the ready, but Hawke wasn’t prepared for the deep, booming voice that filled the room. 

 _“Be bound here for eternity. Hunger stilled, rage smothered, desire dampened, pride crushed. In the name of the Maker, so let it be.”_  

Hawke’s whole body went rigid. Her heart clenched so painfully she feared it was failing. 

“Does that voice sound familiar to you?” Bethany whispered. “I’d almost swear…” 

Hawke couldn’t have forgotten that voice if she’d tried. If, by some miracle, she reached old age and forgot everyone she’d ever known, that voice would still haunt her dreams. Deep. Resonant. _Strong_. The voice of Malcolm Hawke was unmistakable. 

 _“I cannot condone the Wardens’ use of demons in this horrid place, but I’ll not let it be said that any magic of mine allowed one to escape.”_

When the shock finally wore off, Hawke had to work very, _very_ hard not to cry. It had been nearly ten years since she’d heard it and Bethany’s struggle to remember its owner only upset her more. Varric had noticed the tension strumming through her body. A hand on the small of her back and the sympathy inherent in the gesture made Hawke turn her burning eyes to the ceiling. It was hesitant, ready to move away if she showed the barest hint of rejection. Hawke put an arm around his shoulders, letting him know it was wanted (and very much needed). 

“Hawke?” he whispered. 

“My father.” 

“How—?” 

“I don’t know, but I’d know his voice anywhere.” 

“Trust a Hawke to get involved in weird shit,” he said neutrally. “Now I know where you get it from.” 

The burning in her eyes subsided with a surprised laugh. If it sounded a little like a sob, he made no mention.

 

 

8.

They followed the ghoul’s hobbling form further down without much choice, trying their best to ignore his constant muttering. 

“Down and in…down and in…” 

“I’ve never been so glad that Wesley died quick and well,” Aveline said. They’d hung back to prevent him from overhearing their conversation. 

Hawke put a hand on her shoulder, there and gone. Aveline nodded, staring resolutely ahead. 

“He’s wearing Warden armor,” Bethany said to herself as she stared at the ghoul’s back. 

“All right there, Sunshine?” 

“I—yes. I’m fine.” She walked faster until she came up to her sister. 

“That level of corruption…Niamh, you wouldn’t have let me get that far. You would have done something.” A question disguised as a statement. 

Hawke swallowed, picturing what ‘something’ would have been. “No need to worry about that. Everything’s just dandy now.” 

“Oh, quite,” Bethany said, mouth turned down at the corners. 

They crossed a bridge into the center of the tower. The ghoul stood in the doorway, gesturing for Hawke to approach the platform in the middle of the chamber. 

“Touch the seal,” he commanded, surprisingly sure of what needed to be done. 

Hawke took a breath and walked up, the dagger— _key_ —she’d found held out before her. As it crossed over the seal, a pulse of energy burst out accompanied by an ethereal tearing sound. A pride demon appeared in the center of the seal inches from Hawke. She stumbled in her haste to back away, but Varric grabbed hold of her belt and gave a firm tug, pulling her away from the demon before its clawed hand could make contact. It split into three identical forms, all of which burst into green flame. Aveline ran forward to draw their attention while Hawke got to her feet. Bethany dropped a ball of flame on one of the forms, causing it to disappear at once. A volley of shots from Varric eliminated the other, leaving the actual demon for them to deal with. Hawke leapt onto its back, stabbing a dagger on either side of its neck to keep her grip when it thrashed. Aveline’s blade found purchase, gutting it while Hawke managed to stab a blade through its eye. It collapsed and Hawke rolled smoothly off. 

She turned to the ghoul. “Who are you? How do you know how to work the seals?” 

He twitched as his face scrunched with the effort of piecing his thoughts together. “I was…Larius. _Yes_ , Larius. And a title…Commander of the Grey. It was my duty to keep this place sealed.” 

“You were Warden Commander?” Bethany said. “I think I’ve heard that name mentioned before in Asburg.” 

“I thought Wardens were immune to the taint,” Hawke said. 

A shadow passed over Bethany’s face. “We’re resistant, not immune.” 

Larius led them onward and Hawke released each seal they came across. They came to the last one and defeated the desire demon that appeared. 

 _“I’ve bought our freedom, Leandra. We can go home now. Us and the baby, together. I hope it takes after you, love. I would wish this magic on no one. May they never learn_ _what I’ve_ _done here.”_

And his voice faded for the last time. 

“He never wanted a child with magic, then I came along. What would he think of me? Of what I’ve become?” 

“What you’ve become is a lot more impressive than what you would have, which was dead. Or imprisoned in a Circle. Father was in the Gallows. He didn’t want that for you.” 

“Sometimes I think death would have been preferable.” 

“Father didn’t believe that and neither do you. Maker, the Wardens have made you almost as dramatic as Carver was.” 

“I don’t know what I believe anymore. There’s so much wrong in the world, Niamh. All this horror, and the Maker allows it.” 

It hurt to see Bethany, who had eaten up every lesson about the Maker and Andraste with shining eyes as a child, turning away from the faith their mother had so believed in. That dark seed that Hawke had shared with their father was in Bethany after all. It hurt more than Bethany’s disdain, but it helped her accept the inevitability. If Bethany couldn’t keep such darkness away, how could Hawke? 

“You don’t have to tell me what’s wrong with the world, Beth. I _do_ live in Kirkwall, after all. This ruminating doesn’t suit you.” 

Bethany stared at the ground. 

“Don’t make me do Carver’s jig, because I will and embarrass myself just for you.” 

That surprised a laugh out of her. “He always tried so hard to cheer us up whenever anything happened. I mean, it was usually his fault, but still…” 

“He just didn’t want us to tell Mother. The joke was on him, though. He looked so silly.” 

“I miss him. And Mother and Father.” There was an eternity-long pause. “And you. I’m going to come back, Niamh. When I’ve finished with—with the mission I’m on. Anders left the Wardens and so can I. I promise I’ll come back.” 

“If that’s what you want.” She tried not to sound too happy about the prospect. 

“It is.”

 

 

9.

“That looks like Legion of the Dead armor,” Varric mused, gesturing at the body. 

“Legion of what?” Hawke asked. 

“The Dead. Dwarven thing,” Varric explained. He picked up the journal and browsed the entries while he spoke. “No matter your crime, you can atone by fighting to the death in the Deep Roads.” 

“Cheery.” 

Varric ignored her. “Garen, Garen…why does that sound familiar?” 

The path ahead was clear and they had a good view of the tower from where they stood. Aveline continued forward to the railing, craning her head up to get an idea of how far they’d come, when they heard the scraping of rock. A genlock alpha with its massive shield charged them from the nook it had hidden in. Hawke and Varric managed to sidestep just in time and Bethany was nowhere near its path, but Aveline didn’t see it in time. It struck her off balance and she toppled over the railing, a single gauntleted hand grabbing it at the last second. 

“Aveline!” Hawke shouted and rushed the genlock. It was too large and sturdy to be knocked off balance, but she got its attention. 

The genlock turned, putting the shield between them and eliminating Hawke’s ability to attack. She immediately realized her mistake and prepared to run, leaving the others to handle bringing it down. Varric ran over to the railing where Aveline hung, bracing himself and reaching down. With a relieved nod she grabbed on and used him to climb back up. Her shield was still strapped to her arm and her sword was safely on the ground, having been knocked out of her hand before she tumbled over the edge. 

Bethany infected one of the lesser genlocks that ran in with a walking bomb and hurled bolts at it, hoping to bring it down in the middle of the group. Hawke ran, leaping over the genlocks in her way and rolling to the side when she heard the alpha gaining on her. It paid no attention to its own kind, sweeping them away with its shield in its pursuit of Hawke. The genlock detonated, sending an explosion of gore outward and killing two if its fellows outright. The alpha paused, allowing Hawke to put more distance between it and herself. 

On her feet again, Aveline let out a fierce shout, stunning the few remaining genlocks and distracting the alpha just as it was about to catch Hawke. It was enough for her to plunge her daggers into the back of its head and bring it down. The rest fell quickly. They were solid and brutal, but not the most well-defended creatures—unless they had a shield, of course. 

Hawke and Aveline exchanged a nod and the four of them continued on their way. 

The structure was less solid now. Sections of the walls had broken down, allowing the Deep Roads bleeding through. Some areas were almost swamp-like, with a thick green mist that obscured their feet, causing them to stumble into muddy soil and puddles of questionable water. Alongside the lake was a building missing a wall, allowing the water to lap up the gentle slope of the floor. Just out of reach of the water was another body in Legion of the Dead armor protecting a journal. Aveline rolled the body with her foot until Varric could pull it out. 

“Ah!” Varric exclaimed as he skimmed it. “I remember now. Tethras Garen was sentenced to die in the Deep Roads after being accused of killing his sister. They found the real killer and his father sent out countless units to find his heir. None of them returned so every heir thereafter took the name ‘Tethras’ in his honor. One of them became a paragon and founded my house.” 

“So, he was your ancestor?” Bethany asked. 

“A very distant one, but closer than I like to get to my family.” 

“These poor dwarves,” Bethany said softly. “They were trapped here like us.” 

“Hopefully we don’t end up like them,” Aveline said. 

“You said they were from the Exalted Age?” Hawke asked, gesturing at the journals Varric carried. 

“Yeah. Long time for a corpse to be down here. I’ll probably send these to Orzammar for the Shaperate.” 

“Hey,” Hawke said suddenly. “Both of us found weird family shit down here. You can’t act like it’s just me anymore.” 

“I can, too.” 

When Hawke made a face he tugged her down by one of the ridiculous belts that adorned her new armor and kissed her. They heard Aveline huff and broke apart with a grin. Hawke turned to see her sister’s eyes wide and mouth agape. She bit down on a laugh and decided that Bethany’s face was too entertaining to ruin with an explanation. She walked away with a wide grin to let her sister wonder. 

The stonework had crumbled quickly in the swampy lake. They climbed more than they walked, trying to find the safest way forward. A severely angled path caught Hawke’s eye while Bethany and Aveline looked off at a patch of water that had, curiously, caught fire. Caught on a stone ledge, keeping it from tumbling into the water, was another dwarf’s corpse. The armor it wore was very different from the corpses they’d found previously. 

“Varric,” Hawke called quietly, trying not to alert the other two. “Look at this.” 

Varric joined her, accepting a hand up when Hawke offered it. His face sobered. 

“Ah. Poor bastard. That’s the heraldry of the Garen clan. The Legion was so close to him they probably walked right by without noticing.” 

He almost looked sad, which was surprising considering how distant a relative this man was to his family. Hawke reached for the journals and Varric handed them over absently, still staring at the body. She flipped through the pages, found the one she wanted, and read. 

“Atrast tunsha. Totarnia amgetol tavash aeduc.” It was clumsy, but it was something.

 

//

 

Varric’s head snapped up. 

He wasn’t going to tell her that the last time he heard that phrase out loud had been his mother’s funeral.

Bartrand’s had been quick and quiet and mostly served to ease the transition of the Tethras house to Varric. Hawke hadn’t come because Varric hadn’t told her. The thought of making her sit through more of his wallowing had been unbearable, even though the funeral hadn’t followed the traditional dwarven custom. 

But Ilsa’s had. Even though it had been a relief that her suffering was finally at an end, it had been one of the hardest days of his life. Ilsa Tethras had lived out her final years as a shadow of her former, noble self; trapped in a past that was forever beyond her reach. The drinking finally won and the funeral had concluded with that very phrase. Bartrand had gone back to work, but Varric had stayed behind to stand in front of the tomb for hours. He’d been there taking care of her for the last few years, telling her stories that harkened back to better years that he had never known. Then reality would hit and the drinking would resume all over again. 

He wasn’t going to tell Hawke any of that. 

“That’s sweet, Hawke. Now let’s get out of here before you see me cry,” he said just as his voice began to break. 

Hawke put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. Before she let go, he covered it with his own.

 

 

10. 

They seemed to be making decent headway. They’d started going back up, which seemed like progress. 

“Hawke?” Aveline called. 

“Hm?” 

“This is from a Warden’s journal about Corypheus. It claims his influence can surpass the fortress walls, all the way to Kirkwall. Considering what we’ve seen, it could account for everything that happens in the city.” 

“What do you mean ‘what happens?’ ” Varric asked, walking over to join her. 

“I—well, _everything_. The blood mages, the thinness of the Veil, the darkspawn attacks even when there isn’t a Blight. It’s a gigantic mess and no one questions why. This darkspawn could have influenced the city since the magisters ruled it. They may have even worshipped it.” 

“It becomes routine fairly quickly,” Hawke said. “You’re saying this Corypheus is the cause? Are we sure that killing him is going to fix everything?” 

“I’m not sure we can rightfully leave him be now.” 

“It could make sense,” Varric mused. “I mean, he’s commanding dwarves in his sleep and we have a resistance to this shit. If you’re telling me this guy’s at the root of Kirkwall’s crazy, it’s not a hard sell.” 

“He needs to go.” 

“At least I’m good at killing things,” Hawke said. “Less of a chance I’ll muck this up.” 

Aveline pocketed the page and led them up the stairs. By now they were tired and hungry. While they’d packed rations and water, they’d been tired too nervous to truly stop and rest. Aveline shifted her shield’s weight every few minutes as it wore on her and appeared to be favoring the arm that had saved her from falling to her death. Varric flexed his shoulders just as often; Bianca had become a burden hours ago. The daggers strapped to Hawke’s back weren’t heavy, thankfully, but her fighting style required a great deal of stamina to pull off effectively and they’d had more encounters in one day than she could adequately handle. Her hips hurt, which was a new kind of pain to join the wonders of her rapidly graying hair. 

“Why is everyone whispering?” Bethany snapped. 

Hawke didn’t turn, still trying to find a stride that eased the aching in her hips. “No one’s said anything.” 

“But I-I swear I hear it. Something.” 

That made Hawke stop. “Beth?” 

Bethany was several paces back, having already stopped. “I…” 

“What do you hear?” Varric asked carefully. At least Hawke wasn’t the only one thinking it. 

Bethany stared through them, lips tight and brows furrowed. She closed her eyes, as if trying to pin down exactly what she was hearing, then shook her head sharply. 

“It’s nothing.” Her voice was cold. “Come on.” 

As she marched past them, Hawke saw her hands were clenched in shaking fists. 

“Hold up, Bethany. We’re resting here. I think we’re all at our limits.” 

“I’m fine,” Bethany insisted. 

“Well, good for you, but the rest of us aren’t.” 

Hawke sat on an outcropping of stone with the most pathetic whine she’d uttered since her recovery from the Qunari attack. Every movement sent sharp pains through her hips. Beside a cold fire pit, Aveline shucked her sword and shield, followed by her boots and gauntlets. Varric had removed Bianca the moment Hawke announced the stop. He took off the harness and his duster, rubbing at his shoulders. Larius appeared twitchy at the rest, but said nothing and wandered a ways off to sit. 

Bethany stood watching the three of them as they settled down, still looking agitated but having nowhere to direct it. 

“If you’re that hyped up, keep watch,” Hawke said. 

She pulled out a bundle of rations for everyone as Bethany found a spot to sit. Before Hawke had finished handing out the bread and cheese, Bethany had fallen asleep and tipped over onto her side. Hawke chuckled. 

“Younger siblings,” she said conspiratorially to Varric. “Like puppies no matter how old they get.” 

“I resent that.” 

Hawke shrugged. “She and Carver were always like that. Bouncing off the walls one moment, then passed out the next. I admit, though, I’m having a hard time imagining _you_ like that.” 

“That’s because I have always acted perfectly civilized.” 

Hawke scoffed. “ ‘Acted’ being the key word, there.” 

“Think you could reel back on the skepticism long enough to look at my shoulder?” 

“Only if you promise to look at my hips later.” 

“I don’t think anything I’ll be putting your hips through is going to ease the soreness.” 

Aveline threw a crust of bread at the back of his head. “You _do_ realize that I try to forget about you two, don’t you? Why must you constantly remind me about your— _dallying_?” 

Hawke laughed. When Aveline turned back around, she said quietly, “That’s the kind of soreness I can deal with.” 

She turned her attention to the knots in Varric’s shoulders. Eventually, he nodded off in her hands and she nudged him onto his side. As Hawke resigned herself to keeping watch, Bethany stood suddenly and placed a series of glyphs across the path. A trio of genlocks shuffled around the bend and ignited as they cross over the glyphs. Bethany placed three more and went back to sleep. Hawke followed gratefully. It would only be a few hours of rest, but it was better than nothing.

 

 

11.

Janeka’s fate was sealed the moment it was revealed that she led the Carta to Corypheus. Hawke could live with her own life being threatened, but not Bethany’s or the lives of anyone else they happened to be with. 

They continued their pursuit of the woman and the Wardens with her through the tower. A large door led them out where the air was unmistakably fresh. The Vimmark Mountains rose around them as they finally emerged from the fortress, causing them all a brief moment of vertigo. It was night, though Hawke couldn’t tell if it was the same day they’d set out or the next. As they climbed the stairs a chorus of howls was heard in the distance, echoing through the canyon. Varric startled and looked over at the tower. 

“Oh, that’s nice.” 

Hawke scoffed. “Nice how?” 

“I was just wondering what someplace sinister and foreboding would look like and here it is. It’ll make an excellent plot point if we survive.” 

Keeping an eye on the griffon statues, they approached the tower and nearly collided with Janeka, who stepped out from behind a pillar. 

“You’re too late, Larius,” Janeka sneered. “Give us Hawke and I’ll make it quick.” 

“Hawke has made her choice.” 

“Was it really her choice? Or is she another Malcolm?” 

“What?” Hawke could tell it was something Janeka had been waiting to throw at her, but it still had the intended effect. 

“It isn’t important,” Larius said with an impatient wave. 

“I beg to differ,” Hawke said forcefully. If she were less preoccupied, she’d have picked up on the increasing clarity in Larius’s voice. 

Larius growled in frustration, glaring at Janeka. “How did you find out?” He turned back to Hawke. “Malcolm Hawke was reluctant. We needed to persuade him to do the ritual. It was my duty as Warden-Commander. I told him that if he didn’t help us, he’d never see his wife again.” 

“You threatened to kill our mother?” Hawke said quietly, fists clenching. 

“No! He came along. I never had to go through with it.” 

“You still threatened to!” Bethany snarled, stepping forward. 

“See, Hawke?” Janeka interjected. “You can’t trust a thing he says.” 

“I can’t trust _either_ of you, actually, but it doesn’t matter. I’m not petty enough to let that detail convince me to release a darkspawn that’s convinced you it can be controlled by one blood mage.” 

“I _can_ control it!” Janeka shouted, drawing her staff. 

“That’s what it wants you to think.” 

“You don’t have to come willingly, Hawke. I just need your blood. It’ll work just as fine coming from your corpse.” 

“Come and get it then,” Hawke snarled. 

The moment Janeka lifted her staff to cast, Hawke disappeared in a cloud of dust. She appeared behind Janeka an instant later and slit the woman’s throat. 

“You should have looked into more than just my name,” Hawke said as Janeka bled out at her feet, eyes wide and terrified. “You would have realized you didn’t stand a chance.” 

Without Janeka’s magic, the other Wardens lost whatever upper hand they had and they died just as quickly as she did. 

Larius led Hawke to the center of the chamber where the streams of magic continued to silently weave through the air. 

“The key is not enough,” Larius said. “Use your blood to break the seals. Awaken him and we will end this.” 

She hesitated, gazing over Larius’s shoulder at her sister. Bethany nodded, staff at the ready. Hawke made her way to the edge of the chamber and the first seal, the other three following at a distance. She sliced her forearm, held her breath, and let her blood drip into the goblet. The reaction was instantaneous. A pulse of light and a brief quake and the stream abruptly ended. 

“The spell weakened,” Bethany said. 

“Sounds like the tower did, too,” Varric said, eyes on the struts that supported the roof. 

The second seal’s magic disappeared. 

Aveline inhaled sharply. “Are you really doing this?” 

“I can’t see I have much choice.” 

And the third. 

“You feel that?” Varric said. “It’s like…something’s lifting.” 

“Yeah.” Her voice was tight. 

“I just want to point out that dwarves typically don’t pick up on magic shit. If I can, it’s a problem.” 

“I know, Varric,” Hawke snapped. 

Despite how heavy her legs felt, she made it to the fourth seal and stopped. 

“Last chance to change your mind,” Varric said uneasily. 

“Be careful, Niamh,” Bethany said, barely above a whisper. 

Hawke almost walked away, but it immediately dawned on her that she’d be leaving one stream of a containment spell to hold a being that had managed to act beyond the full force of all four. She released the last seal and the center of the room sent out a shockwave of energy. 

“I wish you had changed your mind,” Varric mumbled. 

 _Me, too_ , she thought. 

Unable to turn back, Hawke climbed the center dais and deepened the cut on her arm. The first drop caused intricate patterns of gold light to spread across the platform. She felt herself pushed toward the center by the key on her back. She drew it and yelped as it was ripped from her hand, floating in the center. The golden light beneath her feet erupted into a pillar, throwing her back to the ground and winding her. Aveline hoisted her up in one motion. 

A figure rose from below the platform, uncurling and twisting in the air. It was deformed and gnarled; the face looked like it had been front and center to an explosion. 

“You!” He pointed to her. The voice rattled, steeped in an unfamiliar accent. 

“Me?” she squeaked. She looked at the others out of the corner of her eye and back at the creature. 

“I must speak with the first acolyte. Bring him hence.” 

Hawke stared. 

Corypheus paused. “You do not obey? You owe fealty to any magister of Tevinter. On your knees!” 

“Magister or not, you’re in the wrong country for fealty.” 

“It speaks without sense.” He narrowed his eyes. “You are what held me here. I can smell the blood in you.” 

“Ew,” Hawke said under her breath. 

“Dumat!” he called to the sky. “Hear me!” 

He stood with his arms stretched toward the sky for a long time. Hawke and the others didn’t move a muscle. Nothing happened and his form deflated. 

“Silence. We sought the golden light. You _promised_ us we would be gods. But it was black…corrupt. How long…?” 

“The Golden City,” Larius breathed. “He’s one of the magisters who tainted the world. He spoke to us and brought Janeka here—brought _you_.” 

“First he went after the Maker in His house, then me in mine. I should be honored, yes?” 

Corypheus interrupted, his mood taking a violent turn. 

“It was supposed to be golden! It was supposed to be _ours_! If I cannot leave with you, I will leave through you!” 

“Oh, dear.” 

Corypheus rushed toward them, giving them no time to get out of the way. Bethany had already drawn her staff, but the others were knocked prone as they scrambled to ready their weapons. Hawke retrieved the key and stood as Corypheus unleashed a flurry of attacks, giving them little opportunity to land so much as a glancing blow. As soon as they managed to crack his defenses, he rose above them and held his palms to the sky. 

“Dumat! Grant me your power!” 

Dumat appeared to be listening now, as flames erupted from Corypheus’s hands and he began to rotate, attempting to direct the streams at them. 

“Run!” Hawke shouted. She jumped back from one stream and barely avoided losing a foot. 

“The seals!” Bethany called from over her shoulder. “They’ll disrupt him!” 

Hawke led them in a desperate sprint. Shades rose from the shadows with each pillar she activated and attacked, delaying their escape. Corypheus’s control over the flames was tenuous at best and he appeared to struggle as he turned slowly. It was enough that they could avoid them if they were quick. 

As the last pillar was activated, Corypheus lost the flames with a frustrated yell. He vanished and reappeared an instant later. They were ready this time and unleashed a barrage of attacks against the creature. Even prepared, they had only a few breaths to attack before he called out to his god once more. A wave of energy knocked them off their feet as rocks jutted up from the floor beneath their feet, forming walls of stone. 

“Get up!” Aveline yelled, lifting Varric onto his feet by the collar of his coat. “The fire is back!” 

“Stick together!” Hawke called over her shoulder. 

Varric stopped short as another boulder rose under his foot, nearly crushing him, and shouted, “He’s boxing us in!” 

Hawke released the last seal and was thrown off her feet a moment later as Corypheus appeared beside her. 

“Take him out before he can throw something else at us!” Hawke shouted, getting back on her feet. 

“You insects will not stand in my way!” Corypheus rumbled. He threw a blast of force at Aveline, knocking her back into a stone wall and stunning her. 

Bethany shouted and unleashed a Fist of the Maker that threw Corypheus to the ground, giving Hawke the opportunity to sink her blades into his side. It seemed to have little effect and he shook her off, rising into the air again. 

“Lightning strikes thee!” 

Crackling purple energy erupted from his hands. The rock formations glowed and began to conduct the bolts of energy, shooting them back and forth and further limiting their ability to move. The tower shook and the sky outside rapidly turned black. 

“What’s going on out there?” Hawke said, her hair standing on end from a barely-dodged streak of lightning. 

“He’s created a storm outside the tower,” Bethany gasped. “The whole structure could crumble!” 

“This is madness,” Aveline breathed, struggling to shrug off a bolt that had grazed her. 

As Hawke wove around a pillar of stone, frost appeared on the ground in front of her. She stepped back just in time to avoid the giant icicle that collided with the ground where she’d been a second before. Shards of ice pelted her face and left stinging cuts. 

“Andraste’s pyre!” Varric balked. “If he pulls a dragon out of his ass, I’m leaving!” 

“I’ll be right behind you!” Hawke said. 

She led them through the maze to the last seal that needed to be disrupted, moving deliberately to keep them all together. A wall of electricity made her stop short and turn on her heel to go through another break in the wall. It was narrow, forcing them to dart through single-file. The edges glowed as Aveline passed, crackled as Bethany followed, and finally erupted when Varric reached it. Hawke looked back to make sure everyone was through just as it struck him. Purple light encased his body as energy coursed through him, holding him upright and giving the illusion that time had slowed. His hand was outstretched, still seeking purchase to pull himself through. Then the energy dissipated. The light left his eyes and he dropped, unconscious and smoking. 

“Varric!” Hawke shrieked. 

“Get the seal first!” Bethany grabbed her, dragging her along. 

“Aveline, grab him before the flames come!” 

Aveline had already doubled back and thrown Varric over her shoulder, running after them. 

Hawke activated the final seal, Aveline placed Varric down next to the statue, and Corypheus teleported again. Hawke threw her gauntlet at Corypheus, seizing his attention, and put every ounce of strength she had left into her strikes. Without thought, she downed a stamina draught. Blood pounded in her ears and sweat dripped down her face, but she felt none of the exhaustion of their long journey. He threw another wave of energy outward, sending Aveline and Bethany reeling, but Hawke braced herself for it. She leapt into the air to avoid his next strike and twisted, both daggers sweeping around in a wide arc across Corypheus’s chest. He staggered, barely hovering over the ground now. Hawke landed and spun, carefully lining up her shot. It was a long enough pause for Corypheus to open his palm and release a blade of ice. She felt it impale her side, broader and colder than steel, but she didn’t stumble. Using the opening left by his attack, she released her dagger and watched it flip end over end until it struck, buried to the hilt in his eye socket. The stones, the ice, the lightning all vanished instantly. 

Corypheus fell in a heap and Hawke stabbed his chest several times. She ripped the melted remains of the ice shard out of her torso and gestured for Aveline’s shield. Aveline hesitated, but handed it over and watched with regret as Hawke used it to gore Corypheus’s head until it was unrecognizable. 

“How’s Varric?” She asked flatly, wiping a splatter of blood off her cheek. 

“I’ve got him,” Bethany said. She was on her knees beside him, hands aglow. 

Hawke returned the shield to its disgusted owner and walked over to Varric and Bethany. Sharp pain seized her chest and nearly floored her. It was a serious injury on its own. Combined with the pain from the long hours spent trapped in the fortress it was nearly unbearable, but she forced herself to keep walking until she could watch Varric’s wounds knit back together. The burnt flesh from the lightning cleared, leaving fresh, pink skin. With a groan he opened his eyes again. 

“Please tell me he’s dead,” he wheezed. 

“He’s paste, actually,” Aveline said with a grimace. She hadn’t replaced the shield on her back yet, instead holding it out as far from her body as she could. 

“Good. Didn’t want to do that again.” He sat up and clutched his head. 

“All right?” Bethany asked. 

“Yeah, just my ears ringing.” 

“That’ll fade.” 

Hawke heaved a sigh and Varric looked up. 

“You never take me anywhere nice.” 

She chuckled less helplessly than she felt and knelt down next to him. What she wanted to do was pull him in tight, but they weren’t done with this yet. Her chest ached from the ice shard, but looking at Varric and remembering the moment he fell made it ache for an entirely different reason. She settled for a firm hand on his shoulder. Varric paused and drew his thumb over her forehead. There was a sudden burning as his finger traced a cut. Memories of the Deep Roads and a Profane that nearly ended her flashed through her mind. Hawke waved his concern—and the memory—away and stood, turning to the approaching Larius. 

The pain in her side nearly crippled her. Hooks tore at her diaphragm, thrumming a furious beat in her abdomen. Bethany caught her before her knees buckled. Varric tried to leap to his feet, but a gentle downward force push from Bethany kept him down. Assured that he would stay down to rest, she pressed her hand to Hawke’s side and pumped a stream of cool magic into it. 

“Excellent,” Larius said. He stood with his back straight and his voice firm. “He will not be a danger any longer.” 

“You sound different,” Hawke said, eyes narrowed. 

“Corypheus’s hold over me ended when you killed him. I can think clearly once again. I must report this to the Warden-Commander.” 

“We’re not supposed to come back from our Calling,” Bethany said softly. 

“I must try. Thank you for my freedom, Hawke. I will never forget what you did here.” 

Hawke shrugged, officially over this whole ordeal, but Bethany frowned as she stared after Larius’s retreating form. 

“The Calling doesn’t…I mean…” 

“What?” 

“When Wardens get their Calling, it doesn’t go away. It can’t. The taint becomes too much and that’s it.” She sighed. “Then again, they keep so many secrets that I really wouldn’t be surprised if it _could_ fade. Never mind.” 

“Well, then. Shall we leave this awful place? I need a drink.”

 

 

12.

“It’s amazing how the past haunts us,” Bethany said, staring into the fire. “All this hardship from something so long ago.” 

Hawke leaned against the mantle, still finding it difficult to process the last two days. Things she’d thought long-buried had come kicking and screaming to the forefront. When she could be alone she’d deal with them, but not now. Not while she still had to play Big Sister. 

“I’m surprised he didn’t tell Mother.” 

“I’m not,” Hawke said. “He didn’t tell the three of you anything you didn’t need to know.” 

“But he told you?” 

“Not about this, but other things.” 

“Hm,” Bethany considered. “It seems tempting the Blight is a theme in this family. Maybe one day we’ll learn to leave well enough alone.” 

Hawke laughed. “I wouldn’t count on it.” Then, sadder, “It gets harder to remember him with each year.” 

“It does, even with all the time he spent training me. But I remember a lot of what he said. He was always so proud of you and Carver. His scoundrel and his soldier. What he’d think of us now, I don’t know. I imagine he’d disapprove of me becoming a Warden, considering what they put him through.” 

“I think he’d be fine knowing that you lived because of it.” 

“Yes, but a life as a maid would have been so much quieter. Simpler.” She shrugged. “Then again, being ‘normal’ would have required different parents and I wouldn’t want that.” 

“Are you—” Hawke stopped herself before her voice could break and cleared her throat. She had to know. “Are you still angry with me?” 

Bethany considered for what felt like an absurd amount of time. “It’s not the life I would’ve chosen, but with what I’ve seen these past years I’ve learned not to take second chances for granted. It’s been hard. It’s been _so_ hard. But I’ve known so many great people because of it. And it’s the first time in my life that I’ve taken care of myself. I’m not coddled in the Wardens. It’s…oddly comforting. I don’t think I knew I could be this capable until I didn’t have a choice. I actually think I’m grateful you made the choice. I would have taken the easier one and given up.” 

She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Hawke. “It’s not like you got an easier path. I heard about the Arishok.” 

“Ah, yes,” Hawke said in her normal voice. “His skull is in the kitchen, if you’d like to see. Makes an excellent gravy boat.” 

Bethany snorted and broke away. “Still horrible!” 

“It’s what I’m best at.” 

This was good. This felt normal. 

“I wondered if you would have been better off if I’d stayed to help. Later, at least. By the time I thought about what the attack meant, about what you were doing, we were miles away.” 

Hawke shrugged. “I survived.” 

“You always do. No one could believe it—that you’d killed the Arishok in single combat—but I did. And with just a scar.” 

“Two scars, actually.” Hawke gestured at her abdomen. “The ladies love it.” 

“And dwarves? I saw, well,” Bethany stumbled over her words. “You and Varric? When did that happen?” 

“Much later than it should have, honestly,” Hawke said with a chuckle. It was a little embarrassing to discuss this with Bethany, but she wanted to clarify while they were so close to their old relationship again. “You said you wanted meaning in your relationships, unlike me.” 

“I—I didn’t mean…I didn’t know.” 

“You still don’t,” Hawke said. She sighed and ran a hand through her hair. “Nothing I did in Lothering wasn’t for you. If I’d known that you’d caught on I would have explained. But I figured if you didn’t know then it was for the best. It was for me to bear.” 

“How was it for me? You were out at night with no explanation. I followed you the one night and saw—well…” 

“You ever wonder why the Templars never caught onto you? Even after you’d slipped in front of others? It’s because I was making sure their attention was on me instead.” 

Bethany looked at the floor. “I had no idea. Even if I had, I shouldn’t have judged you.” 

Hawke shrugged again. “It is what it is.” 

“I hope you two are happy. Whatever it is between you, I mean.” Bethany gave her another hug, tighter this time. “Thank you for taking care of so much with so little thanks. Take care, Niamh. I’ll be in Kirkwall for a while longer. I’ll see you soon.” 

And she left. Hawke turned back to the fire and closed her eyes in…something. Relief. Disbelief. Something. 

Hawke was well aware that she wasn’t the most stable person. Stability had been her strong suit a long time ago, before Kirkwall happened to her. Before Carver insisted on joining the army. Before her father died. Despite her precarious balancing act on the edge of sanity, seeing things was out of the ordinary, even for her. 

“Your father would be happy you two are still close in spite of everything,” Leandra said beside her. 

Hawke jumped. Her mother stood there looking as regal and calm as a ghost as she had in life, only younger. Much younger. Before the years on the run in Ferelden began catching up with her. Her demeanor had always made her seem taller than she was, despite being shorter than the rest of her family. She watched Hawke serenely. 

“He sacrificed so much so we could all choose what we wanted in life. It must have been a terrible burden. Much like the one you’ve assumed.” 

“That’s me. Fighting forces I can’t possibly win against,” Hawke quipped. It was easier to just go along with the hallucination. 

“You’re so much like him. There was such darkness within him that I could never reach, and his questionable wit kept it that way. You can’t joke your way through life, Niamh.” 

“It’s working out so far.” 

“Is it?” Leandra turned to regard her daughter. 

Hawke met her gaze, but saw a figure over her mother’s shoulder, leaning on the second floor railing. Tall, dark, and untouched by the wasting sickness that eventually took his life, stood Malcolm Hawke. She refused to look directly at him, no matter how badly she wanted to, just in case there was also a dead brother hovering nearby. Seeing both her dead parents was enough of a blow. She imagined her sanity precariously tipping over the edge of a cliff, pinwheeling its arms to try to regain balance. 

“The best of him is still with you. The best of _all_ of us. It’ll be all right.” 

Hawke looked away, unable to bear the fresh wave of mourning, and stood in front of the fire until her knees were stiff and only dying embers remained. 

She felt Varric’s presence long after he arrived and wondered how much he’d seen. Not much, she hoped, but that had never been her luck. 

“Hawke?” he said tentatively. “Were you talking to someone?” 

She chanced a glance at the space next to her. Empty. A rush of relief and despair filled her chest. 

“No. I suppose not.” 

He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her along with him up the stairs. Sleep should have been easy after what they had gone through and for Varric it was, but not for her. She’d reached a state of impenetrable exhaustion where the harder she tried to empty her mind, the more awake she felt. She kept expecting the figure of her mother to appear at the foot of her bed, or her father, or Carver. 

There was something else, too. She felt it at the base of her neck, but couldn’t think of a word to describe it. It was like a sudden drop in pressure, or the sensation of gentle unraveling (which, she was shocked to realize, she was familiar with). It was like nails on slate. Like acid eating through her teeth. A voice through a thick door. 

It was— 

 _Green._  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies, as always. This fic is far from forgotten, though, don't worry.
> 
> The next update will most likely be rewrites of chapters 1 and 2, so keep an eye out for those before 18.


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